


Superior

by Darling_Ghost



Series: Modern Assassins [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Assassins In Love, Erotica, Europe, Evil Lannisters, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Modern Assassins, Modern Era, Murder, Porn With Plot, Revenge, Terrorists, Winterfell, aged up Arya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 117,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8872639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Ghost/pseuds/Darling_Ghost
Summary: A modern AU landscape painted in sex and blood.   A man has secrets. A girl will have revenge. Arya turns to Winterfell for solace after the surprising accidental death of her parents and youngest brother.   As she mourns them, her path crosses that of a secretive man who will ultimately take her to North Africa and Europe to bring vengeance against an enemy that threatens the Starks...and the fragile balance of power in the Middle East in her quest for power and money. Explicit: graphic sex and violence.Very smutty, sorry to say, but oh there is definitely a plot.UPDATE: epilogue + next fic preview





	1. shining glory of a Northern summer

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to LadyGrey81, who bravely offered to beta (as often as my patience would allow....) And for making this story a million times clearer, catching stupid grammar errors, handsmacking me when the POV is all over the place... and indulging my overuse of comma splices (sometimes.)

_Superior never gives up her dead._

 

It was a nightmare, a cold, wet, dark nightmare; she watched helplessly, outside of herself, as strands of sunlight waved through the water, lit up pale limbs, red hair unfurled, the thrashing and then slowing of bodies as they slowly sank down through impossibly clear, frigid water.

It was a nightmare, and when she woke, sputtering and gasping for breath, she found that the illusion was real; that the water had taken them; that they now lay on the limestone floor of Lake Superior.

Arya could hear the coast guard officer’s soft, sorry voice, reverberating through her mind as she slept, as she woke.   _So very sorry, miss, the vessel was found broken up. Your family. Please, we are so sorry._

_Your family. Please, we are so sorry._

Her parents were dead.

Rickon, too.

_The vessel was found broken up._

Their boat, their boat...capsized in the rough springtime waves.

Arya could imagine them leaving: Rickon wanting to stay home and play video games, Catelyn obliging him gently until the time came to leave... and then her voice turning to sweet steel; Ned quietly and efficiently checking the boat, guiding it with a sure hand out past the swells.  The looming expanse of the huge lake on one side, the untamed land on the other, and their small boat holding them, the vessel that had kept them safe on so many voyages before.

And then Arya’s imagination took her to darker places: the crash of waves, overwhelming the boat. Or perhaps there was still ice on the lake, puncturing the hull.  Or maybe Ned had steered them into more dangerous straits, where the timbers and bones from centuries of shipwrecks lay beneath as warnings of Superior’s treachery.

_So sorry._

In all of the scenarios she pictured of their last hours, the end result was the same, the nightmare returned: they were gone, gone, gone, the cold water rushing over them, fighting, like Starks, as their last breaths escaped, as their lungs filled and they fell slowly to the depths.

 

Arya’s grief was high and acid in her throat, sliding down to fill her stomach, rushing out through her extremities and she drowned with them in her head, over and over.

She felt catatonic, trying to wake herself to anger, to action - anything beyond the crushing sadness that made her limbs tired, that stole hours from her as she stared out the windows, watching the sky dance on the ripples of the lake

There wasn’t anything to be angry about; she couldn’t muster her fire, she tried. It was the inherent danger of the lake. _We know the lake is dangerous._  

It was ingrained into their bloodline, the ruggedness of the landscape shaping generations of gritty Starks whose eyes reflected the grey of the water, skin as white as the ice that surrounded them for months out of the year. Starks that had come to this land centuries before, traded furs with the Natives, greeted the freezing winter snows with a shrug and carved out their fortune in the remote North.

 

 

Her siblings, save Jon, coalesced around Winterfell, moving through the massive old house in their own versions of Arya’s sadness.  They stood stoic as a memorial was performed and a monument dedicated on their land, they were all aware of the dignity that Ned carried with him; they all muted their tears and pulled the very Starkness they carried in reserve and wore it like a mantle on their shoulders, covering themselves; a final show of respect to their parents.

Robb left first; Bran and Sansa stayed with her at Winterfell the longest. Bran immediately found a book and locked the door to his room, Sansa absentmindedly cleaned everything, eyes rimmed with red. They bickered halfheartedly over meals; they displayed great tenderness with each other at times. And then they sadly packed up and reluctantly left Arya standing guard over their parents memories in their family home.

Sansa tried to get her to come back to Chicago.

Arya couldn’t, wouldn’t. She needed to stay, needed to be at Winterfell to process, needed some closure before she could go back to the life she was building.  She called her professors and froze the life that she had in Chicago; a thread to pick up after the summer.

_Chicago. Her studies. Dating. Who cares._

It all seemed so inconsequential, so trivial.

She wondered when she would feel alive again. She couldn’t leave, not yet.

Winterfell alone was consolation. She wandered the grounds after everyone left, watching the earth move from the cold bracing spring into the gentle, tenuous warmth of early summer. She watched the season change over the rolling hills and woods, the rocky shoreline cutting against the water, the horizon unblemished by the sight of any other land beyond it.

 

She stayed away from the shoreline at first.

It was too raw, too close. _They’re still out there._ Their bodies hadn’t been recovered; only bits of wreckage had floated up. The water was too dangerous to send anyone to dive, too rough for a recovery mission.  

Their bodies would have to wait, surrounded by the cold clear waters, until by chance the wreckage of the boat was found, until perhaps divers could safely enter the deep, until by luck they could be brought back so their bones would rest with generations of Starks. The Stark cemetery lay at the top of a hill on their land, guarding over Winterfell and the dark forests and lake surrounding it.

She avoided _that_ hill, as well.

A few weeks after Sansa and Bran left, she saw the water shine blue and inviting under the sun, and it compelled her to walk down to the rocky shore, launch pebble after pebble into the waves.

Arya glared out over the vast blue horizon.

Waves crashed onto agate beaches without guilt, without sadness, without reproach and the clear water retreated before mustering enough energy to crash again on the shore.  It was hypnotic.

 _Fuck you._ Arya felt betrayed even though she knew it was beyond reason. She wanted a sign, the lake to mourn with her, acknowledge her loss.  And she could not stop herself from the hopeless scan of the inky blue horizon again, a futile look for a sailboat that now staked claim to depths below.

Superior was an old friend, an old love.

_No one else to blame, really, just the water, claiming them. Just an error._

She knew she wouldn’t see it, she wouldn’t see them again...but her eyes disobeyed her reason, and treacherously they scanned the surface.

_Nothing. Of course. Stupid._

She wiped the tears away, jutted her chin out and threw in a particularly large rock into the waves. The _splunk_ it made as it entered the water was loud and satisfying, and she watched the water part to take it and move back together seamlessly as it sank. She walked back up the rocky path to Winterfell.  

 

 

After she came to some semblance of peace with the water, she started to feel a little bit better, a little bit stronger each day.

Moving to escape thought. Cutting wood. Clearing brush. She exercised in the downstairs hall, karate, dance; moving until her hair stuck to her, her muscles pricked and the sun was sliding down the sky. The ache of her muscles invigorated her; she whispered the mantra that she had always used in karate: _Calm as still water. Quiet as a shadow. Strong as a bear. Swift as a deer._

_Round house. Side kick. Block. Jab. Over and over again until the light left the hall, until her sides ached._

_Quick like a snake._

The physical sensation took her out of her head and left her with a tiredness that was more honest than the lethargy that had possessed her limbs immediately after the accident.  She could sleep again, she was hungry again.

Stronger, stronger.

  
  
Her siblings still worried. .

“Hey.”

Jon’s voice was muffled but bright. She cocked an eye at her phone: 3:21 a.m. _Wonder what time it is in Afghanistan._

“Jon, where are you? It’s fucking three? You okay?”

“Arya. Arya, I had to call now. I’m not going to be able to contact you for a few weeks, maybe a few months, and I had to check on you before I left base. Have you been outside of the house since Sansa left?”

Jon’s mission must be taking a darker turn. Arya sighed. He was her favorite brother, most like her.

She ignored his question, gave him one of her own. “Do you _have_ to go on the mission?”  Arya already knew the answer. Jon would never shirk his duties. A perfect Marine.

Jon sighed softly; he knew that she knew.

“I love you brother. Be safe.”

“I will be. I love you too, my little wolf.”

 

Sansa called too - her voice tinkling. Sansa was beautiful, and smart - and so much better suited for a life where the world could see her beauty, in Chicago, instead of in the hardscrabble, beautiful north. They’d fought endlessly as little sisters, Arya proud and impulsive, rash - Sansa proud and cunning, ladylike, offended by Arya’s rough nature.  They had grown closer at the end of their teenage years, and never more so than now when they clung to each other for support.  They were each surprised that they actually liked each other: one tall woman with hair aflame, poised and sweet; Arya dark, pale and small, independent and free.

Sansa worried about Arya in that house.  She hadn’t loved it like Arya, but Arya was the wind and the woods and the lakes, and Sansa was different, less raw and more refined.  Sansa wanted her back in Chicago where she could keep an eye on her.

_I don’t care. I don’t care about anyone there. Except you, and Bran, and even you might judge me.  I need to be here._

Sansa tried; she chatted; she updated her about Bran; she dangled tickets to art exhibitions and bands; she attempted bribery with deep dish pizza; she cajoled and wheedled. Arya’s voice snapped and Sansa could just tell that she had that look in her eye... and ultimately remembered that Arya’s decisions were Arya’s alone, _and so help_ whoever try to push Arya into something that she didn’t want to do.

 

Summer.  July. The shining glory of a northern summer, sweet air and green and fields and a sun that stayed high in the air until 9 or 10 in the evening. The brevity of Northern Michigan summers makes them as sweet as the ubiquitous dark cherries sold on the side of roads, at markets across the peninsulas. Waterfalls burbled and tinkled, neither too frozen to move nor too swollen to be dangerous. At times the sky was warm, soft and humid until thunder and lightning broke the tension and delivered warm rain. The sound of crickets, lights of fireflies. Northern Lights dancing at times, lighting up the night sky in vivid greens and purples.

July was usually Arya’s favorite month of the year, a time to revel in the land.

_Fierce as a wolverine. As fierce as a wolf, even._

One morning as she watched the sun climb outside her window she gave herself a quiet reprimand. _You’re an absolute shut-in, you’ve been at this house for weeks, hiding,_ she thought. _Time to get a backbone, time to move. Who are you?_

_Arya Stark, of Winterfell, and I don’t break. I’m not broken._

She had been _glad_ to be alone, _glad_ to work through her demons and guilt. But on this day, she felt that _maybe_ she could think about her next steps, get back to the life she had been putting in motion; remember the adventures she had planned for herself.  Reykjavik. Bangkok. Barcelona. Paris, again.

She pulled jeans on, studied her face in the mirror. Paler than usual, skinnier than usual; her face had changed in the past few years. Her eyes seemed darker, and in uncharacteristic vanity she allowed a moment to appreciate her eyelashes, and shook herself from the affectation.  Finally, a woman, she smiled wryly, and rolled her eyes at herself.

 _Not a lady._  Arya was a tomboy, stubborn and rough. She looked like a boy, a child even as she passed significant birthdays, when finally at 22 her face had slimmed and she was able to make peace with her body that was more lithe than feminine. She let her hair loose, and it fell to her elbows, heavy. She looked at her fingers - they were long and delicate. They looked like someone else’s hands.

 _It was time to get out._ She started to feel alive again, little stabs, the fog turning into pain- easier to handle than having her mind numb.  

Arya pulled her boots on and walked through the empty house and out to the barn.

 

The only person Arya had seen at Winterfell since Sansa and Bran went back to Chicago was Jory; Ned Stark’s most trusted help.  He tended the horses, plowed the roads in the winter, brought wood and tsk’ed her for splitting her own; a few times he sat with her on the grounds and pulled out his pipe, telling stories about Ned Stark.  Those nights, Arya closed her eyes and breathed in that scent. He was worried about her, and he watched her as she closed her eyes, letting the sweet smoke wreathe around her head. She loved Jory, loved his quiet ways.

At the stable, Arya slipped her hand under the mane, along the silken warm curve. A silent apology: in her depression, she hadn’t kept her usual daily riding schedule.  Jory kept the horses, but she had been neglectful. She saddled up, made her way towards one of the trails, worn by generations of riders, and more recently of snowmobiles and dirt bikes, away from the fields of open waving grasses on the gently curving hills that surrounded the western part of the property.  East, to the woods.

Winterfell stretched out over miles of Lake Superior shoreline and forest and field and pond; where the people that lived in the towns gritted their teeth and made do with each winter and gritted their teeth as tourists came in the summer.  Where the Stark kids, minus Sansa, had run wild as kids through fields and looked for arrowheads left behind when the Ojibwe tribes claimed this land as their own.

She meandered through the woods, occasionally taking a deer trail or one left by the Natives. A fox and a few kits watched her slyly from near the path, the flash of red reminding her sharply, briefly of Catelyn. She passed fields and forests, a maze of trails, the scrubby orchards of fruit trees that could survive the long winters. She could smell the leather of her saddle over the piney sweetness floating around her.  She realized her breathing was in time with the rocking of the saddle, with the soft footsteps of her horse on the forest floor.

 

Arya squinted at one of the tenant houses on the property, an A frame, as it came within her view.  Its sides rose up angled out of the ground, man’s small victory from the wilderness. This one was the closest one to Winterfell, aside from Jory’s.  In her pondering she had taken a circuitous route, but she was only about half a mile from Winterfell as the crow flies.

 _Fuck. Another thing to untangle._ She had resisted dealing with the will. The siblings knew that they’d keep the land; it didn’t seem important. _Those houses. I don’t even know who’s in the houses,_ she thought.

Across a meadow she could see smoke rising from the chimney, a slightly battered, late model Range Rover parked in front; there must be a tenant. Her family hadn’t talked about or bothered these tenants, some long term rental with an organization out of DC, affiliated with the job he held when Arya was younger, somehow.  Ned’s past away from Winterfell had been political and defense driven - he’d contracted briefly for the State Department before deciding he wanted to be present for his young family.

“Let them be, Arya. No snooping or playing. They’ve paid, it’s theirs for the next 20 years.” he had said in a voice that stopped questions.  Uncharacteristically, she had obeyed; the young Starks had other places to take over, to conquer, to plant their flag on the property. She didn’t revisit it.  She didn’t care; the house was usually empty, anyhow, and it was less interesting by far than any of the old barns or outbuildings scattered about.

Since her parents had passed she hadn’t gone through the papers of the estate to find out the arrangements of any of the tenants; the creepy lawyer (her mother insisted on using) called and called but Arya just clicked the phone off. Petyr Baelish. Decline. _It will keep, it’ll all keep,_ she thought, _fuck off, let me be._

 

She kept riding closer, unaware for a while, when she realized just how close she was to the little house, maybe 30 feet away.  She was zoned out, focusing on a satellite dish that had sprung up like some type of futuristic sculpture behind the house.  

 _Solar panels, too,_ she thought, _when did that happen?_   

She realized how well situated the house was, standing on a small hill, overlooking the water; it was protected on one side by an impenetrable thatch of forest. The lights were on in part of the house and suddenly she saw a man, his figure passing by the window, and it woke her out of her reverie. Their eyes met.  She realized that she was intruding; she could see into the house; she righted her course and moved away.

She sucked her breath in as a cold breeze suddenly whipped her face.  The clouds must have been rolling in during her little reverie, and the sky had darkened, quickly.  Summer storm. She turned Varg around and urged him to a gallop. _Swift as a deer._ He’d spooked at less than a lightning storm. He spooked at his own shadow. Time to go.  

She looked back again at the Range Rover, the strange license plates, almost blank; a thought frowning on her head, and shook it off. _That’s not a rental, that’s not a tourist._

_That storm. Later, later._

 

Behind the window, a man had been watching her as she crested the hill and rode down, squinting at the house.  He considered her face; it was pale, shaped like a heart, big eyes.  

_Artemis, riding towards him, missing only a bow._

It was a shock, an awakening, a satori. His mind and his body thrummed in tandem, a string plucked and left to vibrate. He felt a resonance with her small form, an empathy for her. He had the very distinct feeling that he knew the way her mind worked, that he knew the shape of her thoughts, that meeting her was no accident.

It was immediate, and a man was patient; not used to such _immediacy_.  The jolt of it was palpable.

That face, that form - she saw him - they locked eyes for a moment and he breathed in and then smiled as he watched her face register his presence.  He focused on the shape of her arms, curving as she pulled the horse around in one confident movement. She turned to ride away and he saw the muscle in her thigh as she pushed the horse forward, saw her mouth open in surprise at his presence. 

He arched an eyebrow at her retreating form, spine curved like she was an extension of the galloping horse, dark hair waving like a banner with the sudden squall blowing in and thunder rumbling.  

“Lovely.” He breathed.

 


	2. the light was brilliant, epic, blinding

Arya could smell the sharp fresh breeze of ozone: _this storm is closer than I thought. Fuck. Fuck fuck._ She urged her horse on, leaning as low to his back as she could get.  A crack of thunder emanated from above and rumbled out over the water. The horse started, ears pinned back, and zig-zagged, wheeling. Arya was losing her seat and lurched to the side and back again.

Not two seconds later did the lightning arch and snake from sky and ground to join; the sky flashed brilliant white.  The horse reared up and caught himself from falling backwards, and then bucked again.

 

The light was brilliant, epic, blinding and for the smallest measurable part of a second Arya felt like she was suspended in air, in time, in light.

Then she realized she was falling, registered one image: _rocks right below and coming fast._ She fell headfirst.

 

She came to - _a minute later? an hour later?_ \- and kept her eyes closed for a split second as she registered the ache on her arm, the pounding in her head.  As she woke her eyes flew open and she pulled herself up. Her arm pierced with pain when she put her weight on it. She winced and willed her hand to form a fist and release, waggling her fingers; _I’m okay._

She startled when she realized she was inside the A-frame.  A rug stretched under her, and she looked around wide-eyed. The figure behind the window - he must have seen her fall and brought her in.  

“She awakes.”  A soft deep voice came from the hallway. That man. He held an ice pack in his hand.

Arya looked at him. She’d never seen him in town; those strange license plates didn’t mark him for a tourist. He was handsome; she would have known him if he was a _local._

“Who are you?” Her reply sounded rude, childish. She heard it, tried to make amends. “Thank you, really.”

He smiled at her, one side snaking up higher, lips pressed together and the look of concern he was wearing slipped off his face as she spoke. He was slightly disconcerting, standing over her; he looked like he had something delicious in his mouth that he wanted to savor; like he was waiting slyly to tell her a big secret but wanted to watch her squirm for a minute or two first.   _What he looks like...is a tease_.

“Right now, a man is the nurse.”

 

_A man? A man is fucking hot._

 

Arya almost blushed; the attraction prickled through her. The curious man knelt beside her, almost deferent in his form.  She looked at his face; his eyes were almost too big and they vaguely slanted up, catlike; high cheekbones. His eyebrows arched up, punctuating his expression.  “Can a girl move her arm?”

Arya frowned at her arm. “It’s still attached. I don’t think I broke anything... _FUCK. My horse.”_

She struggled to her feet and moved to look out the window through the rain, shaking out her arm to will the pain to come more quickly and be done with.  He stood as well. Arya flashed on how gracefully he had moved to his full height, standing above her.  The top of her head would have come to his mouth.   _His mouth, and those lips._..she shook her arm out again.

The man smiled again. “A girl is resilient.”  He silently held out the ice pack.

She came to full awareness; speech came back to her.

“I didn’t mean to ride up so close to your house. I’m Arya Stark, I live at Winterfell. Up there.” She remembered her manners, gestured towards her home. “You saved me from getting soaked.” She smiled, pushed some hair back away from her face with her good hand, and waved off the ice pack.

“Just so. The storm is fierce.”

She couldn’t place his accent or his word choice - _Eastern European somehow?_  His hair fell to his shoulders, muted blondish red, and his skin was tanned, more gold than dark.  She couldn’t figure out what color his eyes were. _Gray? Green?_  The shape of his jaw, the slope of his forehead...she couldn’t assign his combination of features to anywhere on the globe nor could she pick them out, one by one.

She flushed and turned to leave, mumbling about the _damned horse_ running back to the barn, putting the hood of her sweatshirt up. Her armed hummed with pain as she did; she didn’t mean to shudder and clenched her teeth instead. She felt a hum of blood to her sex; her thigh twitched involuntarily. Her curiosity mounted, tempered with a small degree of mortification.

“No. A man will...I will take you.” He bowed his head and gazed up at her, an affectation of politeness, of _courtesy_ that seemed strangely submissive given his size, his stature. He opened the door, stood at the threshold, keys fished out of a pocket. “If a girl is ready.”

 _Trust is a funny thing._  Arya decided then and there, to give it - just a bit - to this man.

She scanned the sparsely furnished room to see a sitting area, a wood stove heating the living room, a pile of firewood and a sprawl of papers, two laptops, some photos printed out on the table. The walls angled up and met in a point, making the ubiquitous A shape so common in the north.  Two blankets on the couch.  A coffee cup. The lake, blurred through raindrops and gray out the window reflected no light from the clouds above.  

She looked up with partial grin, flashed her eyes.

“I guess I _have_ to obey my nurse.”

She walked out the door gingerly, and noted how quietly he followed, feeling his gaze behind her.

When she closed the door of the Range Rover she considered the situation, considered him.   

“There, our house is just up this trail.” She pointed at the main trail.  

 

She and Rickon had raced snowmobiles there last Christmas.  He beat her once, and then hooted and hollered until she stuffed snow down his coat; they’d wrestled in the snow until Catelyn came down, shaking her head, and chastised them for playing out here for so long when it was only 15 degrees. Her snow boots stomped ominously down the path and they were both as quiet as they could be following behind her, stepping in her footprints. _Rickon…Mom..._

 

The drive was short and punctuated by splatters of rain, hitting the windshield. The electrical storm had moved on and rain had followed in its wake.  Arya cleared her throat.

“I didn’t realize anyone was in that house.  How long are you staying? Are you on vacation?” The questions fell out of her mouth in a jumble; her voice squeaked at the end. _I don’t think this is how Sansa sounds when she talks to men_.

The man smiled lazily.  “Vacation, work, it is all the same.” He did not look at her as he drove, peering out through raindrops. The Range Rover vibrated underneath them. She liked how he drove, revving the engine before smoothly shifting; everything very fast, _controlled._ She looked at his hand, dusted with gold hairs; his long, almost thick fingers closed loosely on the gearshift.

Winterfell itself rising in front of them as they closed the short distance.  It really _was_ close; the drive had only taken a few minutes.

“It’s just that, well, it’s just this. We really never have anyone stay at that house. For years. Are you with…” Arya stretched to remember the name of the organization.  “Are you from DC?”  She studied his profile. “Did you know my dad?”

“In a roundabout way, you could say.”  His voice got softer. “Your father; it’s a great loss.”

She welled, briefly, looked ahead, glanced over again. _Strong as a bear. Calm as still water._

“Are you staying long?”

He killed the engine, turned to look at her. His voice became impossibly soft; if he hadn’t turned off the engine, she doubted she’d have heard him.  “Not long, but long enough. You should visit me again.  But perhaps this next time, a girl will look at the sky before she comes.  It would not do to hurt that other lovely arm.”  

He pinned her with his gaze, amused.  When she dropped it to look down, she saw stubble on his face, a small scar.  

She didn’t mean to. Her hand reached out on its own accord and touched his arm. The contact created a jolt; the throb between her legs resurfaced, heat going to her face. 

_For a second it looked like he had felt it too._

He smiled.

 _A very, very charming stranger._  She tossed him a half smile, started to get out of the car.

“I want to. I will.” No creaking in her voice _this_ time.

Her half smile stretched itself across her face, and she kept his gaze before opening the car door and walking up to the entry of Winterfell.  She let the raindrops fall onto her head and slide down her face for a moment as she watched him drive off.  He turned the car around, slowly at first, and then gathered speed as he drove back up the path.

She realized, at that point, that he hadn’t given her his name.

 

 

Jory was in the stable, tending to the wild-eyed gelding, and he gave a little chuckle when she walked in.

“Arya. Lost something? Look what I found making a beeline for the barn. This one didn’t like our little light show, eh? Tossed you off, did he? You okay?”

“There’s someone in the A-frame. Who _was_ that man?” She leaned up against a wall of neatly stacked hay bales.

“Welp, they’re up to the cabin now, eh? Those were friends of your Da’s - that group. They never say nothing, they barely come up; and it’s always a different person when there is someone there.”

Arya was still feeling her blood course through her, the ride, the storm and _him_ combining to make her vital. _Alive._

“It’s no matter, though, Arya - they never stay for long.”  Jory smiled.

 

The next morning Arya had work to do.

It was one of the first mornings that she had started the day with some purpose. She had slept _very_ well. She fortified herself against her task by making the coffee as black as she could stand it.

She had put if off for long enough.  It was time to go into Ned’s study, to start working through his papers.  As if on cue as she entered the room, her phone rang. _FUCK YOU PETYR BAELISH; you pushy motherfucking bastard. I’ll call you soon enough_.

None of the kids really _ever_ went into Ned’s study. It was his space; it smelled like him; the room was masculine, powerful. Arya had the distinct feeling that she was sneaking in, that at any moment Ned would walk in and ask her _what exactly_ she was looking for.

A massive, ancient desk and a wall of windows dominated the room.  He had a woodstove in one corner of the room; Arya lit it before settling down uncomfortably in Ned’s chair, behind his desk.

_Oh dad…_

The top of his desk was mostly clean.  He had a twisted piece of driftwood and a few large pieces of agate from the shoreline as decoration; a few pictures looked back at her.  Her aunt Lyanna, looking very much like Arya, glared out at her. A very young, vibrant Catelyn, looking very much like Sansa, made eyes at the photographer. A snapshot of Jon and Robb as young boys, one arm around each other, the other in tandem proudly showing their catch, impossibly small fish, out proudly to the camera.  Dust had gathered on a monitor and keyboard, pushed off the the side. Ned preferred pencil and paper, usually.

She opened the drawers. Winterfell documents, decades of them; record of cattle and sheep when they were more of a working farm.

Passports for everyone in their family.  Plane ticket stubs. Her eyes misted and for a moment the tears threatened to spill. She moved to less incendiary paperwork, tenderly putting the passports back in the drawer.

Property deeds, taxes, bills for propane and feed and the other minutia of running Winterfell.  Old financial statements.  She looked at them and resolved to send all of them to Baelish, _every last scrap of paper_ , and let him suffer this death by a thousand cuts, a thousand papercuts.

She spent the next hour looking at papers, not really knowing what she needed to find.  FUCK YOU PETYR BAELISH she thought again, I guess we _really do_ need to call you.

Digging through the one of the bottom drawers her hand hit something hard; a box, locked; non-descript, thin and roughly the size of a file folder.  

She flipped it over and noted the State Department seal engraved on the back.

  
She had looked at about as many Winterfell papers as she could stand when she heard the car drive up. There was a noise downstairs, a noise at the door. Knocking.  Arya ran on barefoot down the stairs, glancing at the Range Rover she saw parked through a window as she came down. She sucked her breath in past her teeth. _He’s here._

 

_She’d thought of him all night._

She’d gloriously indulged herself.

The fresh vision of him in her head was a potent and visceral combination with her hands. She came intensely, noisily, and whimpered her way through another orgasm, emerging sweaty and spreadeagled on the bed; wet, panting, the muscles in her legs twitching.  Later in the night she awoke and found her hands creeping back down her stomach and slid one finger into herself; in the morning it seemed that her hand had slipped down her underwear and she deliciously woke herself while thinking of _his fingers_ , what they would feel like as they circled her. _Circled her clit._

 

The memory flushed her face a little as she opened the door. He stood in front of her, looking down at her with the same crooked smile she had imagined vividly, over and over, as she’d moved her fingers in proxy for his.

“Ah, a lovely girl is still alive.” He chuckled, cocked his head and looked her up and down with mock surprise.

“Thanks to _you_.  It was close though, a near fatal sprained arm.”  She shook it; winced. “Death? Not today.”  She smiled.  “Come in?”

 _Spanish? Arabic? What is that accent?_ She couldn’t place him. Puzzling. She needed a marker.

“Hey, I never got your name last night.  Who can I thank for saving me?”

“It is my pleasure to be Jaqen H’gar.”  He stepped in, looked around at the great room with a little tinge of awe. “Winterfell.”

She gaped, just a little. “I can honestly say I have never heard that name. Either of them. Where are you from?”

“Would that I could tell you, lovely girl, from what I know my father’s family came from Belarus, Turkey, all over.” He bowed his head slightly, looked up through his lashes; intoxicant.

HIs entire being seemed to radiate heat.  She felt every her sense become completely attuned to him and looked him up and down.  He was long, lean, gold, hard - she focused stupidly on the blonde hairs of his arm, on the smooth skin at crook of his neck; involuntarily her fingers became sensitive and she traced them up her own arm for want of his hand.

“Seeing as we met in such inopportune circumstances, I thought I would check on a lovely girl. Perhaps come to her house and knock on the door, instead of peering through the window to see her.”  His tone slightly, gently mocked her.

Arya realized that she was almost fucking swooning. _Who was she, Sansa?_ She shook herself.

“Next time, instead of wasting time at the window,  I’ll just walk right in through the door.” Teeth came out in this grin. _That_ was Arya.

“A man rather liked carrying her through it last night, despite the circumstance.”

“The weather forecast is on the back the newspaper, there - let me know when I should next ride to your house and get caught in a summer storm.”  She did not intend for her nipples to harden, but they did in tandem with her boldness.

“Tonight.”  He arched an eyebrow. Almost a dare.

“I’ve been on your property for a few weeks now.  The solitude was welcome, but my plans have me leaving within the next week or so.  Your company would be much appreciated. A man has had dinner alone for too many days.  Come to me; I would learn about one Arya Stark, who rides like she is a demon melded with her horse...most of the time.”

“You won’t mind slightly more... intimate surroundings? The little house is lovely, but this...”  He gestured and let his voice trail off. He looked around, taking in the room. It _was_ massive; the room stretched for forty feet with windows along one side and great beams in the ceiling above.

Arya composed herself by digging her nails in her palm for lack of any other way to remind herself to breathe.

“Tonight. I’ll come tonight.”  

He covered the distance between them, leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek. She smelled his skin as he came closer, his lips were soft and firm. It was a courtesy, a goodbye; she felt his warmth linger.

 

His voice, barely rumbling, broke through her. “Tonight.”


	3. what, exactly, the payback could entail

After he left, Arya felt almost twitchy; the alchemy of nervousness and excitement made her very aware of how her body was moving as she walked up the stairs, where each foot landed, how her posture had straightened.   _ Anticipation _ . It was delicious.

_ Tonight.   _

_ So this is how Sansa always felt. _ Arya fought the tide of excitement that rose in her throat.

_ Don’t be stupid, Arya _ .  

 

Arya had dated before; she had fucked before; she had tender boyfriends and one scandalous, inflammatory infatuation that imploded of its own weight.  

Right before she left to come home to Winterfell, she had broken up with a boy.  _ A boy _ , she spat. _ A boring, scared, sad little boy. _

Gendry had been handsome. He had a man’s body, thick and muscled. Black hair scattered his chest, his arms, and eyes as blue as the lake when the sun lazed over it.  

She had met him at an art opening; he had the air of a man being dragged along as he ruefully looked at their mutual friend Thoros’ work.  He had helped him with some of the pieces, welding, he explained. He was almost shy. She saw a few burns on his arms.  He worked; she liked that.

They dated for a while. He fucked her like she was a piece of china; held her too delicately. It was cloying: a mouthful of sweet sugar when she wanted a taste of spice, of bitter. He hovered; he clung. The first time that he looked up at her with adoration and a question in his eyes, she felt a little twinge of affection; subsequent times almost drove her to cruelty  _ \- you haven’t earned the right to ask, to be affectionate with me, to monopolize me. _

She realized that he _ always  _ had the air of being a man dragged along.  She expected him to be bigger, bolder, smarter - and in the end, she was bored and his pleading made her think of a petulant child. His passivity sparked her irritation; weakness turned her off.   _ A boy. A muscled, hairy boy. _

_ But a man….Now...a man….hmmmm. Jaqen H’ghar, eh? _

Arya wasn’t above a little snooping and she looked for an online footprint of him on the laptop. Nothing. Nothing? He didn’t exist, so far as Uncle Google could tell.

The fact that she couldn’t find him heightened her anticipation.  _ A puzzle.  _

She stood in the shower, thinking, until steam blurred every corner of the bathroom, until her skin was red from the hot water.

She dressed. Carefully.

She texted Sansa. 

_ Of all things, in all of the places...I have a date tonight San _

_ What???   _ Her sister’s reply came studded with emoticons.  _ Fucking Sansa. _ It would have driven her crazy when she was younger. Now she smiled at the screen, proxy for Sansa’s indulgence.  _ Stupid Sansa _ .

_ Apparently we have a tall handsome guest in one of the cabins.  Call you tomorrow. _

_ What??!!!  _  The reply conjured up an image of Sansa’s face, mouth a pink round ‘O’ in mock surprise.  

_ Talk tomorrow!  Call you TOMORROW! _

_ Don’t dress like a boy!!!  _ Sansa wanted the last word.

Arya scowled as she looked down at herself -- jeans.  _ Fucking Sansa. _

 

She would walk the trail, she knew it and it wasn’t very far.  The green stilled her thoughts as she picked through, but when the cabin appeared out of the trees, she paused for a moment to still herself.

And then she strode up to the door.

He opened it.

“No horse of death tonight?” he mocked, looking outside, smiling, taking her in. “A girl walks?”

She handed him two bottles of wine.  _ Ned Stark’s wine cellar was a wondrous thing. _  “I guess I have to pay you back for helping me - although I may have to reconsider if you don’t let me live that down... _ Jaqen _ .”

“Just so. A thing to anticipate, then. The payback.”

 

For a moment, Arya flashed on what,  _ exactly, _ the payback could entail.

 

She grinned and walked past him to look out the window.  The sun lazed toward the horizon; the lake was relatively calm.  He poured the wine, considered the bottle. Chateau Neuf du Pape.

They clinked glasses. Arya took a gulp, nervously blurting the first thing out of her mind.

“Why are you here?”  She gestured.  _ “Here?” _

“I needed...some time.”

It wasn’t enough for her and he realized it, moving to the couch, gesturing for her to join him. She took off her boots, sunk her feet into the couch, frowning at her socks that didn’t match.   _ Sansa wouldn’t have let that happen _ , she thought quickly.

“ _ Everyone _ needs time.  But why here?” She stopped, thinking how rude she sounded, and picked her words a bit more carefully.

“It’s just that...it’s just that this might as well be the edge of the world. People come up here to disappear, to hide out, or to throw themselves into the land.  For recreation. To hunt.  I guess...you just needed some solitude?” She trailed off.

He kept her eyes, even as he raised the wine to his lips.  _ Green, they’re green, _ the thought formed in some corner of her brain,  _ flecked with blue, flecked with gold. _  She watched the infinitesimal movement of his throat as he swallowed.

He sighed. “A girl has many questions on her lips.  Yes, I needed solitude. And some time, and some space to think.  I also needed some privacy--” he raised an eyebrow at her and she flushed for invading his space yesterday. “-- but I am glad for the company now.”

They talked.  He asked her about Winterfell, she indulged him. He focused on her.  Talked about living here versus Paris, as she had as a child.  Talked about university, her studies, her interest in politics and policy and the way that power works at the highest planes of government.

She sighed as she thought about Winterfell, about Chicago, about university.

“I just felt so driven, so unstoppable. I felt like I had lightning shooting out of my fingertips, and I loved that feeling, you know?  And the accident - when they died - I crumbled. I lost my footing. I  _ still  _ don’t have it.”  Arya raised her eyes up to him.

He didn’t drop her gaze, but reached out, put his wine down and covered her hand with his, tangling his fingers into hers.

 

She realized that he hadn’t given up any secrets.

 

“Tell me, Jaqen, tell me about  _ you _ .”  She had been aroused since she walked in, the wine flushing her face, the weird magnetism of him impacting her like nothing else she had felt.  No other partner, no other lover had sensitized her like this.  It was bizarre. She felt her eyes narrow, searing with want.

“What would a girl like to know?”

“As much as a man would like to tell me,” she teased him. “Where are you from?”

“I was born in Turkey, and then I lived all over - in Germany, in Austria, in Morocco.  London for a bit.  Sadly, like a girl, I also lost my parents - my father when I was very young, and my mother when I was a bit older.”  His face did not register any emotion, but his eyes changed, grew unfocused, just for the slightest moment.

Her hand remained covered in his, and he tightened his grip from time to time as if to punctuate what he was telling her.

He continued. “I went to college in Europe, but then set off...to work on my own. I, too, have dabbled in politics, sweet girl. I work with a group that handles relations between governments, or, governments and those that do not wish to be governed.”

His voice, his voice - she didn’t want him to stop talking, ever.

“This place, is quiet, it’s lovely. It’s more wild than the forests in Europe; I shudder to think of how wild it is when the snow blows in off the lake.”

“I have traveled far and away, and I came back here to get some silence, to make the plans that would take me away again. And now I find myself in the company of a  _ most  _ lovely girl.”  His eyes pierced hers.

Gently, gently he raised her hand and pressed his lips against it silently.

She exhaled and as the faint noise reached his ears he moved his other hand and touched her cheek gently.

She couldn’t stop herself. Her free hand reached for his neck and she traced her fingertips gently from his ear down to his open collar.

“A girl is bold.”

That was all she needed to hear, one last vibration of  _ his voice _ and  _ that accent  _ and she burned.

 

She struck like a snake. 

 

She pulled her hands from him and reached to bury them in his hair. She reached for his mouth, tracing his lower lip with her tongue before plunging in.  She felt him shift against her as she kissed him, his mouth hot, tracing his neck with her fingers.

Their tongues shared secrets; a dance, a game, begging and commanding in turn.  Arya was overcome. She couldn’t quite understand what had her so enthralled; this disparate collection of features and words and accents, bound together with golden skin and courtesy.  

She broke away from him, sat back for a moment and grinned. “Maybe not what you thought you’d get when you came to check on me earlier?”  She looked down at his thighs, and back up into his eyes.. “But I’m not sorry.”  She reached down to feel the hardness between his legs, stroking him and watching his reaction.

He moved his hips against her hand and licked her neck with the point of his tongue, the tip of it stuttering down the line of her throat and catching at the juncture of her neck and chest, the warm wet tongue creating little showers of sparks everywhere it touched.  “A girl is ready?”

She didn’t feel threatened, she felt  _ powerful _ .  She had this  _ man  _ against her, feral and graceful and handsome, and she was ready -  and she wasn’t about to complicate this moment with anything beyond how her body registered every single sensation.  

 

She pulled his shirt, toyed with the top button. “A girl is ready.”

 

She took her time with the first few buttons, amused by the growing fierceness in his eyes as she went lower.  He reached up for her breasts but she stilled his hands, pushing them aside; she wanted to be in control.  _ For now. _ She traced the line of his jaw and down down his neck to his chest and reached for the last button, undoing it and tracing fingers at the base of his stomach, idly tracing where the golden hairs darkened slightly, pointing the way to the hardness that grew under her thighs.

She kissed him again, and rose with her mouth still locked on his, and broke contact as she reached up, took her shirt off.  Her nipples were like glass, so hard, so sensitive they felt like they would break as he reached a hand up to softly circle them, taking one between his fingers, pulling her down.

She could feel his urgency as he looked over her body, grabbing her pants and dragging them down; freeing her feet one by one and throwing the pants across the room.  She stood in front of him, naked and pale, felt her hair brush the bare skin of back, felt the almost unbearable heat from the woodstove behind her and the man in front of her.

He rose from the couch, and unbuttoned his pants, stepping out of them. He stood before her in his nakedness. The sun was setting over the lake and the room became bathed in orange and the light caught the curve of his spine, glancing off of the planes of his shoulders.   

They took a minute to regard each other, breathing heavily, prey and predator -  _ or predator and predator.  _ There was no inequity between them in the moment.  Arya could feel her clit swelling as he looked her up and down: she felt him staring at her legs, his eyes lingering on her breasts, her nipples.

He knelt in front of her and traced a line up her leg to her cunt with his tongue, following the curve of her legs, slowly lapping at her when he reached her slit.

Arya moaned, steadied herself by grabbing his hair, and pushed his head down to her sex before realizing that what she really wanted from him was his cock. She fell to her knees, meeting his mouth on the way and continuing lower until she was submissive in front of him.  She couldn’t wait for it, the rest could come later, they could trace and track across each other's bodies all night but right now she needed it.

She looked at his cock greedily, looked at him like she was going to eat him.  He was fierce, muscular and long but not bulky, nothing was too much on his frame.  His erection jutted towards her and she looked avariciously at it, long and thick, a slight curve, the head glistening,  She grasped it and bent down without thinking: _ she wanted to taste it. _

She sucked lightly along the edge and trailed up and down the shaft with her tongue, kneeling while he gasped.

The sound made her bolder still -  _ who was she, doing this? _ \- and all thought faded again as she concentrated on his perfect cock, hands clutching his thighs, and she brought him to the depths of her throat and then teased out to the tip, circling him with her tongue lazily before plunging her mouth back over him, grabbing a hand at the base to make up for what wouldn’t fit in her her mouth, fingers rubbing the coarsest hairs, clenching him, moving up and down his shaft and then gasped for breath, looking up at him as he stared at her with the focused greed of an animal with prey before him.

He moved faster than she could register and he pushed her to the ground. She released her grip on his cock and lay back, wanton, feeling the wetness drip from her. He put his weight on her, roughly, and reached down with a brutal kiss, pushing his cock up her thighs and finding her wet entrance, sliding the length of him in her, savagely, completely.

She gasped as he filled her, looked up at him, surprised to see tenderness in his eyes as he clenched her and started to thrust, slowly.

“A girl is entrancing.” he murmured, “ _ most _ entrancing.”

“Arya.” He lingered on the Y sound in her name, rolling his tongue around it, and kissing her as he started to fuck her, plunging into the depths and then, teasingly, pulling all the way out to watch her until she started writhe in want before entering her again,  moving his hips up so that he could penetrate her as deeply as possible, a harsh gasp caught in his mouth as he felt the walls of her cunt squeeze in to meet him.

_ It was overwhelming _ .  She had never felt this, she was not a person, she was just a collection of feelings and pleasure radiating inwardly, her insides starting to spasm around his cock as he thrusted more roughly.  He lost all pretense of control and took her, the carpet stinging beneath her, his mouth covering her wherever it met her flesh, teeth nipping down, and  _ that cock, that cock,  _ driving in deeper..

She yelped and arched, felt a blinding heat and an overwhelming wash as she came, fists clenched in his hair, pulling him closer.  She felt as if she was outside her body, boneless, senseless, as his cock pulsed and jerked inside her; the heat from his cum mingling with her own slickness; the noise of his growl, strangled, as he came; watching his face blank for a moment as all sensation and thought suspended except for the awareness of him above her, around her, inside her, engulfing her.

They panted as they came to. He rested on her, tenderly stroking the side of her face, no smile on his face as he contemplated her physical being there on the ground with him.

She was too sated to think, too sated for embarrassment, too sated for more.  She felt like her bones had deserted her and she reached up to kiss him, softening her lips for him.

“Jaqen H’ghar.”

His name, the strange and exotic words that applied to no one else on this earth but him, the only words that she could force out of her mouth, and they tasted like salt and sweat and cum and _ him  _ and she smiled as she said them.  

And then she closed her eyes again, the better to feel his body laid out against her. “Jaqen H’ghar. Who _ are  _ you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> AND: holy smut, batman...as I'm editing through the next few chaps I realized that I gave our heroine some serious summer lovin' in this and the next few chaps. (Umm...sorry?! Not sorry? LOL? what *exactly* was going through my head in early August??!) 
> 
> Rest assured, there is NOT smut in every chapter, but y'all are gonna have to grit your teeth and muscle through the next few before you get a little break. You are forewarned / you're welcome / etc.


	4. the most need...the greatest duty...

Arya didn’t know how long they lay there but the light coming through the windows was fading.  Jaqen stroked gently along the length of her body in time with her breathing. 

She focused on each breath.

_ Exhale: _ he stroked down, more pressure behind the pads of his fingers, until firm on the outside of her thighs. _ Inhale: _ his fingers swept back up, touch diminishing, fingers ghosting on her neck. Mesmerizing. The tide outside moved in time with his movements.  

One thousand breaths later - or maybe one million - he reached over and kissed her gently on her cheek, then her forehead, and her breast. Finally, he pulled himself up on his elbow, gazing at her.

She did not know who took more pleasure from what they had just done.  She did not care.

“I don’t even know what to say…” she murmured, letting her words trail out of her mouth, heavy, lazing out.

“Say nothing,then, lovely girl,” he whispered, and he rose and pulled her up along with him. Her legs felt unsteady but he held her up.  _ That spot right underneath his chin was magically created for my head. _

_ Those arms, his arms: perfect for holding me. _

Shadows had started to obscure the room and he broke away from her to turn on a lamp, the glow of it creating a new set of shadows to flicker in the corners, on their flesh.  The waves broke below.  They called to her and she found herself drawn to them, and to the idea of having him next to her at the water’s edge.  

_ Perhaps we should continue our date. _

“Jaqen. Let’s go outside.”  

He watched her as she dressed. She smiled as she gave a reverse striptease; slowly easing her pants up, putting her arms up straight over her head so that he could watch the fabric ease down over her neck and cover her breasts.  He grabbed his shirt, and button by button, his golden skin was covered. His pant legs swallowed long sinewy muscles and for a moment, she felt bereft that he’d covered his form.

She pulled her boots on, grabbed the bottle and the wine glasses, and impulsively nodded toward the door.  “Come out.”

He relieved her of the bottle and his glass with a mocking half bow, his mouth only slightly tilted.

_ That mouth… the taste of that mouth... _

Arya moved in front of him, the little secret smile that bloomed on her face kept all to herself, and she bounded down the path to the beach below. The stars were out and the Milky Way visible already, even as the last traces of the day’s light were gently ceding to darkness. The light scattered tenderly over the water; the edge of the woods loomed impenetrably black.  Loons haunted in the evening air and the crickets had only just started their chorus of sweet buzzing.

They sat companionably, facing out at the water, their hands joined by only a single finger each.  Arya stared out at the waves

She felt entirely comfortable in his silence. He had given her space, as if he didn’t need to fill her up with  _ his  _ words,  _ his f _ eelings. He just  _ was _ .

Arya was cognizant of his zen at that moment, took a small piece of it, and buried it inside of her.

They sat silently until the light had almost completely faded, and the silver moon slowly, slowly waltzed across the horizon.

“Lovely Arya. What are you thinking of?”

“I’m thinking...of chances. And how chances can be so scary... until you take them. Can end up being terrifying...life altering...it’s so easy to hide out here and not take them.”

“How long does a girl plan to hide here, away from the rest of her family, away from the rest of her life?” his voice rumbled. She twisted her torso so she could face him.  

“How far does a girl want to go to find herself,” he continued, “or is she only herself when she is here? What else does a girl wish to find in this great world?”

He reached for her, and she nuzzled her head on his chest and heard the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart.

“I didn’t  _ want _ to hide, I wanted to travel. I just felt like...I needed to put myself back together.”

“I did not see anything missing...earlier.” He squeezed her breast, flicked her nipple.

“Jaqen. Where are you going, once you leave here?”

“That I can’t say.  Where needed, I suppose. We are trying to figure out where the most need is right now, while I am here. A man has duties.”

Arya stretched and drained her glass. She felt the audaciousness that the wine and the sex had brought her, and somehow she felt comfortable, made whole by this man, this stranger that had captivated her.

“The most need... _ the greatest duty. _ ..right now...is for you to feed me. I do believe you promised dinner? I’m starving...”

He raised an eyebrow, slitted his eyes. “A girl is  _ still  _ hungry?”  He pulled her down on the sand, and quietly, tenderly took her again, not stopping his kisses until she moaned her release, softer this time. Afterward, she wondered how sated one human could possibly ever be.

 

 

They climbed up the path back to the cabin, flushed.  Inside, Arya flipped on the rest of the lights and settled into a chair to watch Jaqen cook. He pulled out some morel mushrooms and asparagus and sauteed them, cutting them first with efficient, sure movements of the knife. _ Did he pick them? Did he go into town?  _ Somehow, Arya couldn’t see him shopping in the closest town to them, overrun by tourists right now. He cut some bread, poured her more wine as she sat at the kitchen table, watching him.

The mushrooms were rich, the asparagus tasted green and with each bite Arya realized that she was getting impossibly sleepy. Worn by the wine, the sex, the newness.  She drowsily mused on him: mysterious yet unflinchingly polite; mocking but gentle.  _ So strange, mmmm. _

Her eyes were drooping; she felt her fatigue wearing on her face.

“Does a girl want to stay here tonight, or does she need the great house?” he asked, stroking her arm lazily.

The walk did not appeal to her... _ laying in bed with him did _ ...but she wanted to have some privacy. The strangeness of the day needed to be untangled.

“Yes, I need the great, great house.  You can carry me?”  She laughed.

“I can carry you, but, oh, lovely,  _ lovely _ girl, you have taken a man’s energy and his strength.  But...not his will.  I can carry you..but with the car.” He laughed, swooped her into his arms and  picked up his keys.

  
  
  
  


Tucked into bed, Arya slept like the dead.  The buzzing of the phone woke her and she ignored the first few rings but then pulled it to her ear, irritated.

Sansa.

“Arya, what in the world happened? I was trying to reach you!  Where did you go?”  Sansa had clearly been awake for hours.

“Sansa. SANSA. Let me call you in a few. I...I need coffee.”  She felt the wine and her brain was foggy with sleep. As she started to move, she noted with satisfaction the soreness of a woman who had been good and properly fucked the night before.   _ HIM… _

Sansa squealed assent and Arya hung up the phone.  She had stripped her clothes off  and was sleeping naked; now she grabbed a tee shirt and sweats and moved gingerly down to the kitchen.  

She made coffee, gulped the first cup and started to sip another.  Her phone buzzed, and she saw that Sansa’s video call was waiting.   _ Gods, Sansa... _

She answered.

“Oh my god, you are a mess!”  Sansa trilled.  Arya saw her face in the small square at the top of the phone, waggled her eyebrows, shrugged.

“Don’t care.”  She tried to keep her voice casual, but it was Sansa - and now, miracle of miracles, Sansa was like a best friend.

“So...what...I don’t even know what to ask you? Who was it?  Arya!!”

Arya gulped. How to describe him, their whole encounter?  She couldn’t even understand it herself, really.

“I met him by the cabin, the one that’s usually empty - do you know who Dad let use it?”

“You don’t know?! Didn’t you ask him? Did he take you out?”

Sansa had clearly forgotten, momentarily, that they were still in the Upper Peninsula.

“We ate, yeah.” Arya reddened.

She spilled. “Listen, Sansa, he’s kind of strange, but I like him. I don’t really know a lot about him, but I just  _ know. _  You know I have a good sense about this.  Well, most of the time, anyway.”

Arya did have a good sense, most of the time. She’d only tried to warn Sansa about someone one time before. Sansa didn’t listen. She should have. She’d been overwhelmed with the money and the ‘class’ that had always made up her teenage fantasies - unfortunately, Joff had been a sadistic nightmare.  .

“And he’s fucking, fucking hot.” Arya smiled like the cat that had the canary and inadvertently breathed out heavily.

Sansa squealed.

“I have to go, San.  Hey, can you call Baelish, deal with him? We need to ship him some papers or something. I tried to look through Dad’s office yesterday. And I fucking hate that guy, I don’t know what it is about him...at least he’s nice to you.”

Sansa’s voice got very small.  “Dad’s office. _ Oh _ Arya….”

They both quieted, and then Sansa’s voice got higher as she tried to force the pain away.

“Baelish. Or should I say:  _ LIttlefinger _ …”

Both girls laughed. Littlefinger’s supposedly small manhood was legendary, and Catelyn Stark herself - during the only moment the children had  _ ever _ seen her drunk -  confirmed it, even wriggling her pinky finger as comparison.  They hung up, cackling.

  
  


The sun had risen steadily and the sky was cloudless; Arya could feel warmth of the day already, the heat radiating in the kitchen.  The lake was royal blue satin with little diamonds glittering over the surface. The lap, lap, lapping of the waves below sounded like a tinkling laugh: friendly, irresistible. She could see far off in the horizon, a boat trailing over the waters,  _ must be headed to Marquette, _ its white wake trailing behind  in ribbons. 

It was a siren calling, an old friend beckoning, a lover whispering:  _ come to me. _

She hadn’t gone in the water since last summer; longer than she had  _ ever  _ stayed out of the water. The Stark children had emerged from the lake thousands of times with chattering teeth and blue lips, daring each other to see who could stay in the longest.  As Arya grew up,it was the one place where her thoughts could unspool and dissipate into the deep; where her body was weightless; where her thoughts had no more consequence than one of the rocks visible in the clear water below her. She’d emerge with her blood singing, victorious, racing through her.  

_ Come to me, _ the waves called.

She acquiesced. One last gulp of her coffee and then upstairs to quickly change into a swimsuit.

 

No matter how eager she was to get in the water, there was always that moment of steeling herself before jumping in; a brief ritual that had happened thousands of times throughout her life.

She allowed herself a moment for the shock of the water to overcome her, and then moved under the water with sure strokes. She came up,gasped for breath and then dove down again, pushing her body through the water, keeping her eyes open and looking over the deepening floor punctuated by silver flashes of fish.  

When she felt she could go no further, she stopped, stretched her arms and legs out and floated on her back. The sun was warm on her face, the rest of her immersed in the chill of the water. Jaqen’s words, his voice, lolled in her head.

_ “How far does a girl want to go to find herself, or is she only herself when she is here?” _

_ I should KNOW this. Why do I not have the answer to this, right now?  Stupid... _

How long did a girl plan to hide, indeed.

_ Was she hiding? _

She didn’t want to go back to university, back to Chicago, yet. Expectations. The sad, sorrowful looks of friends, the tempered patience of the political science professors that she had wanted to push her, to ask for more.  Wasn’t ready to finish, to dive in head-first into the early stages of her work. _ Don’t want to give it, now.  Later.   _

She dove.

Winterfell was home. Winterfell was the blood in her veins, steel in her bones.  But right now, it was a cage, the bars crafted out of her own tears and forged in her sorrow.

She surfaced.

Where did she want to go?  When?

She thought of her list. _ Go. Travel. Go, and come back. Not right away. No rush. _ But  _ go _ , so that a return could be sweet,temper the ache that she might feel after she separated from him, inspire her to return to her studies. So that she could once again establish a cadence in her own life.

 

_ So that she could feel like Arya Stark again.  _

 

The thought pleased her, gave her purpose. She switched from lazing to swimming, really swimming, and freestyled straight out until she tired, until the land seemed almost impossibly far away. She felt like she had just forgiven a friend for doing a terrible thing _ \- the lake didn’t mean it.   _

She started to paddle back when she realized that she was far enough out to see the cabin on the shoreline.  _  Mmmmmm. _

There was a black SUV parked in the driveway along with the Range Rover.  Her curiosity piqued, she tread water and watched for a few minutes until she saw two men in black get into the SUV and drive off, out of sight behind the pines.

Hmmm.

She swam back with clean, strong strokes; and now almost impossibly cold, pulled herself out of the water, gasping on the shoreline, letting the sun dry her skin.

 

Showered clean and energized - and feeling better than she had in months, Arya caught herself whistling, and laughed at the caricature of herself. _ Stupid Arya. _ Keep moving, keep going. A ride, then.

“Was that scary, yes...we don’t need to jump, though.” Arya whispered to her horse, nuzzling him. She curried him down, grabbed a saddle blanket and tack and got him ready.  With a mock salute, “Ready for duty, Ser!” she mounted, and looked up.  No clouds. No storm.

A short ride; mostly fields, some orchards, waving grass with patches of forest and then home again.  _ Without incident, thank you very much!  _ The unsaddling, the currying, the feeding felt familiar, the muscles moving her limbs without thought, and when she finished, she walked back to the house.

Where Jaqen was waiting for her, staring out at the water.

 

 

He turned to meet her, no smirking, no joking, no pleasantries, and his eyes flashed.  Arms pulled her against him, lips kissed her sweaty face, her closed eyelids, her nose, and then met her mouth.

“Arya. Arya Stark. I needed to see you.”

“Hi...hi…” she stammered. And kissed him again, just as passionately, to make up for her awkwardness. She grabbed his hair, and melded into him. She felt like she was absorbed by him. He understood how to engage her from head to foot. She felt herself prickle, and shivered.

_ Let’s play.  _ She flashed a grin, and decided to make him work for it. She twisted around, took off her shirt and threw it to him, running.  She barely made it into the house when he overtook her.

“A girl wants to play...but she doesn’t realize who the master is.” He grabbed her, turned her around, forced her arms up.

_ Oh. Oh.    _ Arya’s temperature went up.

“I am.” She stamped her foot, jutted her chin out.

She mocked him, mocked his little head cock, lifted an eyebrow. “Do I need to show  _ a man?” _

His eyes narrowed for a split second and she pulled him into the house until they reached the great room.

She pointed. “Down.  _ For your master.” _ She spat. “ _ Command. _ Now.”

She took her pants off and motioned for him to do the same. She put on a forced, bored look, added in tiniest bit of fierceness in her eyes and stifled her smile.  Hands on her hips. She knew what he saw.

He shed his clothes, lay down obediently. His eyes still glinted. Arya noticed with triumph that he was already hard.  He was fucking marvelous, splayed out below her, and she moved so she was standing over his chest.

 

_ Oh, she knew what he saw.  _ She  _ wanted _ to show him, shifted her hips and watched him look up at her sex, framed with a slip of grey lace.  

 

He reached for her and she shook her head.

He  _ obeyed. _ His hand moved away, rested on his haunch.

“No”, she said. “Your  _ master  _ hasn’t allowed you yet.” She kept her face neutral.

She slowly snaked one hand down, and touched herself.  He was watching her.  _ Inflammatory.  _ He quivered, moved his hand over for himself again.

 

_ No. _

 

She slapped his hand, hard, and reached back to herself, tracing figure eights over her slit. He did not reach again. She saw the small flare of his nostrils, saw the rise and fall of his chest quicken slightly. 

_ Good _ , she said, rewarding him by slowly bending down and shoving her fingers in his mouth, letting him suck at them, wet with her.

She stood back up. _More_. The fingers he’d sucked felt different now; she was impossibly slick. A noise broke past her mouth. _God. He’s right there._ _Those eyes._ Fierceness gathered on his face.  She was so close, so close...

He moved, fast.  Pushed her back against the wall, yanked both hands up over her head and held them as high as they’d go. She was almost on her tiptoes, pulled off the floor.  _ God.  _ It was his turn, and he teased her, touched her, light and feathery up and down her body; his erection thudding against her skin.  _ Combustion.  _ He avoided her sex but teased her thighs, her stomach, under her breasts, but never her nipples.  He brought his mouth close to her breasts but just breathed on them, not touching her.

_ Now. _ She couldn’t take it.  She writhed against him and he pulled her hands back up again.

“No”, he said, and he gave her that crooked smile. He put his mouth close to hers, but pulled away when she reached for it, and then brought his hand down and slowly began to stroke himself.

_ Please. Please. Now.  _  His strokes got fiercer and fiercer and she got louder, not wanting him to come without her.  Her sparking anger combined with her want and rose in a fever off of her.  _ How dare he not give it to her!  _

He entered her, the impact thrusting her against the wall, and raggedly fucked her, lifting her feet off the ground, keeping her arms taut and pushing her onto him.

His arm was against her face and she saw the soft, soft skin underneath his bicep. So delicious. She bit him, held the skin in her teeth, sucked it if only to still the noises coming out of her.  _ That skin, that taste. _

She couldn’t take it and she was there and  _ FUCK NOW _ and she gripped him, heat spreading through her body. She thought she saw him smile right before he grimaced, thought she heard something growl, but she couldn’t be sure because it was hard to see, hard to hear;  her senses at that time could only focus inward, to keep the sensation in, not waste it.

Her limbs hung limply, depending in him to hold her, a ragdoll. Shockwaves, diminishing. He held her against him, on him, and walked her over to the couch and slowly pulled out of her.

“We still don’t know who the master is.” He grinned and collapsed over her.

“Mmmm. It was a draw. We have to play again later.”

“We never stop playing.” He kissed her and lay with his head pillowed on her breast until their breathing slowed.

A few minutes later, he put boxers on  _ (goodbye, Arya thought as his member disappeared, then giggled at herself)   _ and sat back down next to her.

“Arya Stark. _ Witch, you. _ What have you done to me? A man is enthralled. I could not stay away.”   And then he frowned, sighed.

“I would take you, again and again. But a man must leave, and sooner, rather than later.”

 

Arya blinked.

  
  



	5. the day chosen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh, impatience. disclaimer: I had a super-itchy trigger finger and really wanted to post this chap, and so it's un-beta'd...all grammar / structure / continuity failures are MINE all MINE...

 

Of course he was leaving. _She knew that._

It was the _sooner_ that bothered her. Ridiculous. This was a divine one night stand, a gift, unexpected...but she felt the heart-stab of his words. _Soon!_

She nuzzled her head against him.

“Where to?  Where are you going?”

“This a man can not say.”

She drew in her bottom lip, and chewed it.

“Are you coming back?” Her question, mumbled into his chest, sounded small and faraway.  

“No, we never go…” He caught himself, continued anyway.  “We never go to the same place twice, not usually.”

 

This, _this_ was too much to bear.

 

“When are you leaving?”  

He took her chin, pulled her face up, kissed her lips softly. “Today was the day chosen.  But I asked for another one, so I could spend this one with my lovely girl. I could not bear...”

He did not finish his sentence and instead busied his lips on an errant swoop of dark hair curving against her forehead.

She didn’t know how to process what he was telling her, didn’t know what to make of the juxtaposition of her immediate thoughts: the strange satisfaction of knowing he’d miss her. The sudden, overwhelming drumbeat that he was leaving, leaving, leaving. _Tomorrow._

She steeled herself. _Calm as still water._ “Well then. Not today.”

He smiled, a little sadly, and agreed. “Not today.”

He pulled her as closely into him as he could, and they held on to each other tightly, her legs tucked up, secured by the warmth of his arm, head nestled on his shoulder. She was still naked; he absentmindedly traced the line of her chin, looking at her face.

“I don’t want you to go. Don’t go, Jaqen.”

He sighed. “A man has said.”

“Arya. Arya Stark. How long are you to wait here, to stay here.  Will your bones rest at Winterfell even as you live?”

She didn’t mean to start crying.  She felt a tear slide down her face, pause at her chin and drip onto her chest.  She reached for something, anything to still herself.

Her satori, then, in the lake yesterday.

“No.”

She sat up, moved so she could see him.  “I needed to be here. And I will be here again.  But you’re right. I’m hiding, I have been hiding.”

As the words tumbled out of her mouth she wrapped a hand around his leg, idly ran her fingers on the soft skin on the underside of his knee. “I meant to travel. And I will. Finish the last little bit of college. I have papers, written…work to do. I knew what I wanted.”

She stopped the tracing, squeezed the muscle in his calf.  “I know what I want. It just seemed so...meaningless after the accident. It blurred. I had to force it to be clear again...but at least now, it’s clearer.”  She shrugged.

“But you came, and just like that, you’re leaving. Jaqen. Never, _never_ felt like this. So stupid. A few days. I don’t really understand this thing, this _thing_ that we’re doing. But I don’t want to lose it. I would keep it, keep you. I don’t want you to leave.”

She realized, by the end, that she sounded like a petulant child. She tried to make amends.

“Can I meet you, somewhere?”  A small light appeared in her eyes.

Jaqen shifted, kissed her again. He wore distress across every angle of his face; his mouth was in an unfamiliar shape, humor wiped away.  She saw the muscles in his jawline clench and release.

“Lovely girl. There are things you must know.”

He continued, his silken voice impossibly softer, gentler.

“Arya, when I leave here, I have to be no one.”

She puzzled.

“I don’t think a lovely girl is ready for this, much as I wish that she was. The duties that call me are...dangerous. When I leave here, I will disappear. This can not be changed. This is a safe place for me, only today, and no longer. After today, nowhere is safe for a girl, if she is with me.”

He sighed again, his malaise a moth fluttering past his lips into the room.   

“This thing. _Arya._ A girl is too special, even after such a short time. _This thing,_ what we have, has not happened for me - _no one_ is special to me, yet this girl falls on her head in front of me” - that gentle mocking came back into his voice -“dumped by a demon horse, in a storm, and a man wants to save her, and wants her, now to keep her.  But I can’t. You _must_ know that this I do for a girl, because to lose her but know that she is _safe_ is better than losing her, forever, right in front of my eyes.”

 _What is he saying?  Safe?_ _Losing?_ She narrowed her eyes.

“Jaqen, when you leave here, what will you do.   _Tell me_.”

“I can not tell you.” He closed his eyes and didn’t speak for a few minutes.

“Tell me.” Her curiosity entwined with impatience, it reached around him, pulled on his willpower.

“Arya Stark. Swear on the lives of your family that we talk in secret, yes.”

She nodded.  His eyes flashed; hard and agate and focused.  For a moment they were terrible and his voice was serious; no silk. It was a demand, it was an order. _“Say it. Say the names.”_

“Rickon, Catelyn, Ned - I swear on them. On their lives.”

His face, his face was like she hadn’t seen it, another new facet of him. He was stone.  His forehead creased.  His eyes seared into her, did not allow her to move.  

“Arya Stark, my job is to find and kill the men who would tear this world apart, _one by one.”_

  
  
  
  


He couldn’t believe that the words came out of his mouth.   _What spell had she cast on him?_  A lifetime of secrecy, of control, undone by those wet gray eyes, staring up at him.  He saw a tear roll down her cheek, her lips swollen and slightly agape, he reached out and caught it with a fingertip, kissed his finger, traced that finger around her mouth.

Her eyes fluttered, he watched the small movements of her mouth as she swallowed, breathed in. Her entire body tensed.  Losing her. He’s losing her. She’s gone. _Of course she is. What could a girl think of him?_ He didn’t want to push her; he couldn’t stand to see her break on him, see the disappointment, horror in her face.   

He sat in silence with her, softly touching her, electricity shooting out of his fingers, everywhere her body lay against him, even in this most chaste and gentle caress.

He sighed, taking stock of the situation, wondering if she was ready to hear his voice again.

 _Not yet:_ he waited, touching her softly.

“Jaqen.”

Her voice, it was so, so sultry and the words clipped _just so_ at the edges before they fell past her lips. _What spell is this..._

“Why are you here.” It was a command: _tell me._

Another question he couldn’t answer. His lack of discipline was shocking.  He was not some young boy who would lose it over a pretty girl. He had maintained his status, a secret weapon, when this or that government needed something handled. _Delicately._  He did not discuss the nature or the substance of his life with _anyone._  Yet here he was, opening for her. She was a key that had unlocked him, exposed him.

“Lovely girl...”

“ _Don’t. Don’t_ call me that right now.”  Her eyes flashed, her chin jutted out almost imperceptibly, changing the line of her jaw, the shape of her lips.

“A man wishes he could tell a girl, because he finds himself inordinately fond of her. But there are things I _can not_ say, and a man has said too much. These things would put you in danger.”

Her skin, oh her skin, the white softness his for the taking, pliant, still sitting up against him. He could not stop touching her; he resisted the call to move his body so that he could lay her out against him, touch all of that skin at once...even as he could feel her process his words, start to curl into herself . He felt the lack of the soft stroking of her hands, felt the difference in her body, in her muscles, in her every breath. Resistant to him. Repulsed.   _Foolish. What did he think she would do?_

She moved out of his grasp, skin slipping out, softest silk, agony as it moved away from his touch and walked out of the room, towards the door, the pathway illuminated yellow and green in the afternoon sun as the door opened. He followed behind, giving her space. Her body, small and ivory and naked in the afternoon sun, moved down the path towards the water. She was magnificent, she was an animal; her body formed an arc as she splashed through the shallows and dove in, moving furiously.

 _Ahhhh…._ just his fortune that he could _annoy_ such a beautiful girl so as to make her run naked from her house and jump into a lake to get away from him.

The sheer grace she exhibited stirred his cock, _again_ , even as she ran away from him.  He understood the need to run, though, to submerge herself, wash off his words, all of the questions.   _All the water in the world would not wash away what he did when he would leave her._

He watched her swim out, restrained himself from following her into the water.  Let her work out her demons - _his demons._

He would wait until the time was right.

She swam out, stopped right after the swell of the waves. When he saw her swimming slow he moved to the lake, followed her in.

 

That water was freezing, freezing. _How could she swim through it of her own free will?_

 

He kept going, thinking of other, warmer places he had swam to make the water bearable.  That beach in Belize.  Off the shore of Australia.  That warm river, that summer of blistering heat in Turkey.  He could feel himself smirk, unbidden: the combined heat of all of those pleasurable swims were not enough to unthaw him now. _Nothing could unthaw him._  He carried on, increasing his speed; caught up with her.

She floated on her back, her hair swirling, skin almost pearlescent in the water and the sun, not acknowledging him. Her nipples pierced the water and he had to stop himself from taking one of them in his mouth.  He circled her like a shark, swimming on his side.

“Arya. You must know. This thing I do, I can not talk about it with anyone.  It is far too dangerous. I do not keep this from you to hurt you. I keep this from you to stop you from being hurt.”

He kept talking, feeling like it was his last chance to reach her.   _Just let her go,_ hammered his logical, rational side, _always_ dominant.  But he found that he couldn’t - and if he had to circle in this _godforsaken_ ice water for the next day to get her to understand, until his fingers froze off at least so he wouldn’t leave her angry at him - he would.  

“Arya. If I could keep you safe I would take you. A man has never been consumed so quickly, so completely. A girl must believe that.”

She kept floating, her eyes closed against him.

“Arya, Arya, please….”

His pleading, so unfamiliar to him, broke through. He watched her open her eyes, still floating, arms moving slowly through the water, those breasts, pink peaks raised to the sky ( _frozen,_ he mused, _frozen stiff)_ and she turned to him, graceful in the water. It swirled around her.  She reached for him.  She had understood, he saw that her face had softened, her eyes lost their steel and had returned to grey velvet.   

“I can’t _not_ see you again.  But I understand, as much as I’m able to.”  Her smile was sad, small - almost not a smile at all.

“You are absolutely blue. Let’s go back.” _Forgiven._ He felt her grace blooming, opening. She splashed him, darting like a fish as she turned and started swimming to the shore.

 

 

On the shore she was silent and he moved through different scenarios in his head. Something to allow him to see her again.  Perhaps a girl could come with him.  Not on this mission, but he could meet her, as a girl had said.  Perhaps a girl could learn how to become invisible, to be silent.  

His rational thought took over.   _Perhaps a man should wait to see how a girl felt about this when he had not licked every inch of her in the past day._

He came to a decision, banked it, resolved to ask once he was able to feel his toes again.

 

 

 

They walked into the house, wet, freezing, and Arya disappeared down a hallway and came back with towels.  He had stoked the fireplace, lit it.  The afternoon was waning.  They dried off not touching each other, still naked.  Would he ever want clothes around her?  She was completely alabaster, the entirety of her, only deviating to pink at her nipples.  She looked like a statue. A most gorgeous, compelling statue. Artemis, in front of him. Strong, wild, proud. His, oh his.   _So delicious._ He sucked in his breath.

“Arya. Look at me.”

She turned, and to his delight she reached over for a quick kiss, lingered on his lips only for a second.

“If a lovely girl can wait, perhaps we can arrange to meet again.”

She lit up, briefly: _her face the sun_ , it came out for him, him alone, and he basked in the sensation of it, of her incandescence. And then her expression changed, her eyebrows pulled in and the darkening reached through him, her clouds rolled in, and he feared the next words that came out of her mouth, feared that he could not give her the answer that she might seek.

“Jaqen” she whispered. “What you _do_...did I understand you?”

He pulled her to him.

“A man does not know what a girl hears.”

“You are leaving, to go kill someone, because...of…your job is to kill people.”

His eyebrow rose, despite himself. He thought again how strange it actually was; he had never heard the words spoken aloud.

“Lovely girl. A girl had wished to impact the world with policy, with words that have actions behind them, in order to make the world we live in a better place, no? That is what a girl studied, that is what her political theories led to?”

He continued, but slowly. He had never had to explain himself before, he shouldn’t be explaining himself _now,_ but he felt her small body on his and again he marveled at the inescapable pull of her _\- sorcery!_ \- against his willpower.

“When a man leaves, I will find a person - I can not say who, _do not ask,_ curious girl” - he gave her a stern glance - “who will cause great terror.  And I will impact the world by removing that person, by giving his death to the world so it can have life.”

“It is a different way of politics. But no less impactful.”

He could almost _feel_ her processing, feel the words flow through her, filter them, weigh them.

“And you have done this before. This is what you do.” Her voice was flat.

He thought for a moment, and the vision of the last face he had taken from the world came to him.   _Roose Bolton._ The man made his blood boil. Civilized, erudite, commanding, and completely, totally evil.  Roose Bolton had aligned himself with a terrorist cell in Denmark; their ultimate goal had been to take down thousands of people with a coordinated terrorist attack.  Roose had been the head of that particular snake; the body had wriggled and they had attacked and killed hundreds in Paris but their larger attack had been foiled.  He smiled slightly at the thought of Roose Bolton bloody beneath him, his hard eyes fearful as he saw Jaqen ready to strike the final blow.

 

He put that thought out of his head, saved it for later.

 

“Yes, lovely girl, this is what I do.”

She exhaled. Paused.

“You said perhaps we could meet again.”

“A man does not want to make his beautiful girl wait for him.  But now you understand why you can not come with me.  At the end of my duty I will leave that snake pit and come to another quiet place, like this, where I can clear myself, think, live for a moment.  A man does not know where that will be, but perhaps a girl can come to him.”

“How long does it take, _your way of politics_.” She sneered, a little. She wasn’t aligned with him yet, but at least she understood, a little.

“A day, a month...the time is not certain. But a man would find it a most wonderful reward to see his Arya Stark, _carefully,_ at the end of his duty, if fate allows.  If a girl is silent, if a girl can be invisible, no one.”

A small smile crept along her face.

“A man would get a reward.” Her voice mocked his, slightly; his English was an afterthought, but the sound of it out of her mouth turned his desire, always humming uncomfortably high around her, up to a roar.   _Her mouth_ . A problem for him, a sweet, hot wet problem, _that mouth, that tongue,_ sliding around him...

“A man would take a reward now, if a girl is willing.” He ran his hands down her body; her haunches were still cold from the lake, the skin warming, ice melting as he touched her. He skimmed the soft skin to find her clit, softly started circling it.  It was swollen, mirroring his own desire; apparently a girl’s desire was roaring as well.

He memorized her face as her mouth parted and moved towards him, her body arching up to him.  

No master, no servant as they joined again, softly, tenderly, and writhed together, consciously creating and taking pleasure for each other, not leaving an inch of flesh bereft of attention, as the sun waned outside and the shadows grew.

  
  


Arya attuned herself to his body, to her body, _to their body._  Once again she was aware of what felt like an electromagnetic field between them, joining them. Their last coupling was so tender, and so long, that her skin felt like it ceased to exist in the places that they touched, wound together; it was like their muscle and sinew had combined to create one entity.

She felt large, she was the universe, she was a speck, a drop of blood coursing from her veins into his.

She was not capable of rational thought at the moment; some other entity, _some other Arya_ was carefully sorting and storing the memories of what he had just said; the shock of realization; the terror of it.  A different plane: the wonder of what their next encounter would be like. Where in the world he would find her, and where he would take her, again and again.

She didn’t have the strength to shudder; she simply melted further.

He stirred. “Arya.”

The way he pronounced her name, the Y sensual, tangible in his mouth _(in his mouth!)_ moved her thoughts from the macro and the micro, from galaxies and atoms, and forced her back into her body.  She tangled into him more tightly.  She did not want to be apart from his flesh.

“Arya. I must go to the little cabin. I am taking you with me.”

It was not a question, there was no room for dissension. She felt him move, she moved with him and as if by magic her body was sitting, and then standing.

Still naked, she wondered briefly: _when was the last time she had worn clothes._ A wry, wanton smile.

“Jaqen. Let’s go, then. But” - the smile blurred into a grin, her teeth visible - “a girl can not run naked through the woods right now.”  She pulled herself up, flicked on a lamp, breathed in at his form, golden and long stretched before her.

“Let me get dressed.”

She left him and went upstairs, quickly wetting a washcloth and running it over her face, than her body.  A hot bath, soon. The swimming - two great swims in one day, plus a ride, their coupling, harsh and then sweet - had completely exhausted her muscles.  She emerged into her room, came out with leggings, a tee shirt and a soft sweater.  She slipped on some Vans, grabbed a jacket, pulled her hair into a ponytail while walking back down the stairs. _Ready._

She found him dressed, standing, pensive, looking at framed pictures on the bookcases of Starks, grey eyed, dark haired. He clasped her hand. They cut through a deer trail in the woods to get back to his cabin, walking in the darkening forest, listening to the crick of branches and the whir of insects, slapping off a mosquito as they passed more closely to a meandering creek. They did not speak.

 

In his cabin she sunk with exhaustion on the couch, taking a blanket, starving but too tired to move herself for sustenance. He moved in the kitchen ( _so domestic! Oh to have this be their world, their normal, their every day...her heart pricked._ )  He reached into the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, some cheese, some meat, some bread.

He chuckled as he put it down in front of her and joined her on the couch, pulling the blanket around him.  “Never let it be said that I do not _lavish_ a precious girl with the most delectable and gourmet dinners.”

She reached for the cheese, felt some power flowing back into her. She hadn’t eaten since after her call with Sansa earlier; it felt like it had been days since that call.  When she was feeling fortified, she spoke again.

“I am going to Chicago, the day after you leave.  This experience has been so strange, so incredible… and so unlike me.  I need to make sure that I haven’t turned into some wanton, sex-crazed woman that practically molests strangers on the street.”  She grinned. Her actions in the past few days had been _very_ out of character for her.  She stretched herself, arching her back, pushing her tits out to him for effect. _She knew what he saw. Look. All of this, yours._

His eyes flashed darkly before he returned her smile.  “Arya Stark, you are _my_ wanton, crazed for sex woman, _mine,_ and if you molest _anyone else_ …”

They shared a smile, content.  They had given each other everything. There was nothing left beyond the sweet soft fullness that coiled around them. A gift given, received, reciprocated. _Treasure._

Jaqen straightened, thinking. “I must be able to find you.”

“You can’t tell me where you are going?”  She ducked away from the glance he knew she was giving him.  “You can’t give me a country, a continent?”

“Europe, lovely girl, is that enough?”

“That _is_ enough.” Strangely, it was; she was able to create an image in her mind with specificity.  No desert, no jungles.  Europe.

He continued. “Arya.  Normally, this…” he struggled for words, “...this breach in my silence would be punishable. Certainly frowned upon.  But...the daughter of _Ned Stark_ may buy me some leniency, the ability for contact.”

His face changed slightly and she saw his forehead crease, lips tighten.

 

“Or, it could make you a target.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [aural representation of chap](https://youtu.be/9BERkLsJYe0)


	6. hers for the taking

_ Ned Stark had not seemed like a complicated man.  _

_ He traced his lineage back through generations of other uncomplicated men, all the way back to the French traders of the Company of New France. They’d braved unknown, wild lands in the 1600s, paddling birchbark canoes full of otter and beaver skins through the networks of rivers and streams that emptied into the Great Lakes. _

_ The fur trade brought them alliance with the Native American tribes; they scrapped their European clothing, married dark haired Ojibwe women. They settled on the southern shore of Lake Superior. The Starcs became the Starks - a bit of political expediency after the French and Indian War. They mined copper and iron, and amassed land. The Soo Locks made them rich, enabled trade from this westernmost outpost of civilization back to New York and over to Europe. _

_ Winterfell grew from a small cabin to an estate covering miles. The house itself had been built as part of a fort in the late 1700’s; in the mid 1800’s  it was partially rebuilt into what it was today; timbers and stone protecting all of those Starks from hundreds of impossibly cold winters. _

_ The Starks never left; there was always a Stark at Winterfell.   _

_ The murder of Ned’s sister Lyanna shook their family to the core, and especially Ned. He changed; became sharply interested in politics and military strategy, taking his growing family to Washington DC where he worked with the State Department and the Department of Defense and then briefly, inexplicably to Paris where he worked in a fever, disappearing for weeks at a time. _

_ Arya remembered Paris: Catelyn’s worried eyes, riding the Metro, the impossibly beautiful buildings, so strange, the strange sound of arguing between her parents. Ned would disappear for weeks at a time, and Catelyn would sit somberly near the telephone at night. _

_ Eventually, Catelyn and the children moved back to Winterfell. Ned returned home shortly thereafter, quiet and solemn for a time, until he worked through whatever demons had befallen him. _

_ He would not talk about this strange detour his life had taken and the family soon treated their time away from Winterfell as if it never happened. _

Musing on Jaqen’s words _...this could make you a target...  _ Arya remembered when her father returned from Paris. His need for solitude. Many days with his office door shut, his voice muffled on the phone.

 

Looking around her, she remembered: Ned Stark had declared this cabin off-limits right after his return from Paris. 

 

  
She was so tired, so very shocked. The new waves of information and what it meant washed through her.  The thought of her parents sent fresh agony resonating through her; Jaqen’s strange confession and the thought of danger for him; the far more  _ pleasant  _ thought of seeing him again; sadness for him leaving. 

Fear, repulsion at his mission.  _ Who was he? _  It was too much.

_ Too much. All of it. _ She closed her eyes.

“Jaqen.”  She opened them slowly, saw him staring intently at her face, his hands resting on her knees as she reclined against the arm of the couch.  It was so hard for her to keep her eyes open even with her thoughts chasing each other.  She wanted a bath,  _ needed  _ to sleep.

“Jaqen, I need to wash up. Go to bed. But more than that, I  _ need  _ to know that you are going to explain, at least what you can, tomorrow.  And there’s not time for that tomorrow,  _ a man  _ needs to make a pot of coffee, NOW, because you can’t leave here without explaining what the hell is happening.”

Jaqen smiled at her, wordlessly pushed off the couch and walked down the hall.  Her tiredness turned to anger: bombshell after bombshell, dropped on her, nuking her... and then he just  _ walked away _ ?  She started to push herself up, heavy, leaden, propelled by her the anger and the indignity.

“Hey!”  she shouted.  She followed down the hall.

And found him in the bathroom, drawing hot water in the bathtub.

He smiled at her anger.

“A lovely girl smells like the lake - and the horse.  And like a man, although  _ that _ is not altogether too far from his liking.”

He started to take off her clothes, gently, and with them came the fresh layers of her irritation. He kissed her face after her shirt came off, he kissed her thighs softly as he took her pants off.

“Arya Stark, you will have some of the answers you seek, but I’d have you hear them with a clear head, since we have the time.  Now, precious girl, here is some water of a more  _ pleasing  _ temperature than your freezing lake.”

She kissed him back, wrapped her arms around him, and he gently led her into the bathtub. He sat on the side, washing her, not allowing her to help. He washed her arms, tenderly washed her breasts, and in between her thighs.  He smiled at her toes as he washed them, one by one.  He shampooed her hair, and then put some conditioner in it, squeezing it out and working through the knots with his fingers.

When she was clean and in a completely boneless state he helped her stand, dried her off softly, wrapped her in a towel and picked her up, carried her into his bedroom.  She hadn’t been in his room before, but was too tired to sate her curiosity; she briefly picked out the fact that there were papers on the desk, and one, two, three cell phones on a nightstand.

A goodnight kiss on her forehead, the hollows of her neck; shivery kisses up and at her mouth a long, slow kiss, his tongue sliding gently, softly, lazily; his eyes closed.  Of all the kisses... _ hundreds of them _ ...this one felt different. The kiss of someone who loves you, she thought.   _ Stupid, stupid. _

_ Want him...just...can’t... _ Exhaustion overruled her desire to pull him down to bed with her. She stopped any last struggles to stay awake. Her body felt like it was sinking through the bed. He stroked the dark, damp hair like she was a child, and sat there until she fell asleep.

  
  
  


Jaqen put his lovely girl to bed.  

He hadn’t meant to ask her to come with him. Nor talk about her father.   _ That spell! _

Well, now he had work to do.

He waited until a most compelling girl was asleep, and went into the bedroom, picking up the smallest cell phone, and walked outside to dial it.

He spoke in French.

“I will have a visitor, when the work is done, and we will stay as long as we can.”

The voice on the other end of the phone sounded confused.

“This is not for you to know,  _ nor to question _ . You will prepare these things for me. I will do my duty, and when it is finished, all that you have prepared will be ready. You will send a phone, a clean one, and that will happen  _ immediately. _  You will send a means to travel, and you will send the rest of what I ask you, and that will happen within the next week.”  Jaqen’s voice was dangerous, low, steel.

“It is Ned Stark’s youngest daugher.”

_ Ah, yes. _ Acquiescent noises from the other side of the phone.

Jaqen hung up, looked at the sky.  A streak of light traced the sky overhead and he gave the tiniest of smiles at the shooting star. _ A blessing. _

 

He crawled into bed, already delightfully warm from her heat. Arya slept, her breathing calm and measured, her face relaxed. She was stretched out on her back; her eyes closed, one arm a white willow branch gracefully extended over her head.  

He resisted the urge to wake her, nuzzling her hair and gently fitting her up against him. She fit so perfectly, the curve of her ass maddeningly pressed against his groin, her head tucking under his. He marveled at the contrast of their skin: white and gold.

He wrapped himself around her as tightly as he could without waking her.

They slept.

  
  
  
  


She stirred before the sun came up. The light of the predawn showed her the slope of his cheekbones, the forehead, his eyelashes, the sweet curve of his chin.  His lips were full, and as he slept his mouth was slightly open. 

She wanted to wake him, watch his limbs move from sleepy to purposeful, watch those eyes open up for her.  But she loved the stillness of him, the perfection as he slept.

  
  


Today. He was leaving today. TODAY. She closed her eyes. Hours, minutes, seconds….

 

She couldn’t lay still anymore.

She rolled on her side, touching the planes of Jaqen’s torso with the lightest touch she could muster.  He moved, slightly, not waking. She took her fingertips and dusted his thighs, back up to his navel, tracing the line of hair that led straight to her pleasure.  

She could feel him moving; a warm hand reached out for her.

He groaned. The sweetest sound...oh _ Jaqen Jaqen... _

Hers for the taking.  _ Again. _ She felt herself dampen..  _ Again. _ She’d been aroused, ready, the entire time she’d known him. She dragged her face along his abdomen, the skin and slight hairs rubbing on her cheek as she moved down to the nest of hairs, to find him half-erect, building quickly. She breathed on him and smirked as his cock twitched in the direction of her mouth. Ready.  She stroked him slowly until the head, purpled, sprang up against her face and she opened her mouth to take it.

She didn’t pull him in all the way; she stiffened her tongue into a point and circled the ridge, flicking, and flattened it as she concentrated her efforts on the vein that bulged out, that went all the way down.  

His legs stiffened and he bucked a little bit and the action drove her to free a hand so that she could slide it into herself, slippery, hot.

She liked having him in her mouth. She liked watching him respond to her.  Liked the taste of him.  She served him, found a rhythm for him, then changed it, more tongue, more pressure, then less. Power, for her, to watch him writhe. His every movement, breath, action was dictated by the movements of her tongue, her cheeks, her hands. It was time... _ ravenous, indeed. _ She pulled him in as deeply as she could, grabbing his ass to bring him in deeper, feeling him hit the back of her throat and she opened even more widely for him, tightening her mouth like a vise.  _ Come for me... _

  
  
  


Jaqen was in the sweetest agony.

He couldn’t handle the sensation of her. He was ready to explode, again... he wanted her closer to him, he couldn’t get enough,  _ all of her, _ her mind her body her mouth her mouth...that tongue…. _ ARYA. _ ..  He reached down so that he could touch her, he wanted to feel her, grab her,  _ all of her. _ .. she moved and he could see more of her, the sight of the dark brown hair, silk, falling down over a white marble shoulder, shadows pooling in the indentation of her clavicle, the mouth obscenely stretched to take him, an arm reaching towards him, those eyes were a dare...ARYA ARYA...

Oh, oh, those fingers, she must’ve touched herself, given it to him, a gift, and he took it, sucked her little hand, those fingers moving in his mouth, ah, so delicious the taste, her nectar, the tang of it.  His eyes rolled back before he forced them to drink in the sight of her, as her mouth sucked him even more furiously, pulling him into her with the feeling of those long delicate  fingers on his ass and now he’s filling her mouth so deeply and the sight was so lascivious, beyond want, he’d fill her again and again she was  _ his, his, always his,  _ and NOW ARYA ARYA never stop, never, NOW and he felt himself throb, release.

He looked at that mouth, as she pulled off of him  _ oh _ !, cream leaking and that pink tongue darting to catch it and then he relaxed, pulling her head up so that it was level with him, kissing her, tasting himself in her, herself from her fingers in his mouth.  

_ Bewitched.  He could not leave her... _

He’d give to her now, his gift, his fingers, one, two, reaching up, curling them up in her, he would make her cum around them, he wanted to feel her shivering, he needed to see her face as she came, driven ruthlessly by him,  _ oh beautiful, beautiful ARYA _ . He kissed her neck, her mouth, her back roughly, his chin scraping her, nipping her, pinning her with his legs.  Ah, she would feel him, all of him, he would make her, he wanted to see her be overtaken,  _ oh, wanton girl _ ….he could not name what she created in him but he’d give her  _ anything, everything you desire beloved, anything, everything, starting with this now _ and his fingers compelled her, each spot he touched making her shudder more...

As she came he heard her mewling, whimpering his name, over and over.

  
  
  


The sun was rising and Arya padded to the kitchen to make coffee, leaving him splayed out, content, his drowsy bedroom eyes watching her leave.  Her entire heart, her entire being swelled with fondness, attraction, infatuation for him.  She took a blanket and her coffee cup and sat outside, watching the little waves nibble at the shore.   She looked down the hill; three deer were visible, daintily picking through the edge of the wood.  The rolling hills bowed down to pay homage to the water; the Keweenaw peninsula rising to the west in her vision, the arm of dark land stretching out, visible in the clear morning. 

Ned. She had touched his files, or messed with them at least, but she had not opened his laptop.  She would bring it with her to Chicago. Baelish had an office there and he might have information about the passwords.

Ned’s government work, this little cabin and its occasional occupants, Jaqen’s talk of her being accepted - or put in danger - because of Ned - _ Ned had secrets,  _ and she meant to discover them.

She drank another cup of coffee, watched the sun fully come up. The glow of _ them _ had left her, and sadness had staked a claim on her, the finality of him leaving.   _ He’s leaving _ . Icy hands down her throat, stilling her, tears just present, ready to fall, behind her eyes.   _ He’s leaving, today.  _  She was in disbelief of how fully she wanted him: his preternatural calm; his laconic movements, so intoxicating; that voice conveying his understated, sly humor.  That lazy, feral grace.

She had never, ever, felt this way about anyone. The strength of her feelings was overwhelming, delicious, terrifying.

He seemed perfectly synched to her; his tenderness. He felt like he belonged inside of her head, inside of her.   _ And sometimes he was _ , she thought; a very Jaqen-esque little thought.  She pictured the shape of his head, those huge eyes and lips, almost feline, like a big cat…

She walked back in, poured a cup of coffee to take to Jaqen - added some cream - and quietly slipped back to the bedroom.

 

Jaqen had fallen back asleep, stretched out over the bed, his arm over her pillow.  She looked at the fine, dark golden hairs under his arms. Perhaps the only place she hadn’t kissed. It was strangely intimate.   She set the cup of coffee down on the nightstand and kissed him awake.

He unfurled from sleep gently, lazily stretching his arms, and an even more lazy smile stretching across his face. His eyes were fond.

“My lovely girl does not wish me to sleep.” His voice, usually so silky, had a touch of grogginess in it.  “But there is no better way to wake up.”  

“You _ can’t  _ sleep today. I won’t let you. You’re leaving. We have to talk. I need you, need your brain. And maybe the rest of you, too.” She grinned.

“Jaqen, you need to tell me what you can about my father, why...why all of this is happening.  I know you can’t tell me everything. But...what you can...you need to tell me.”

“Can a man drink his coffee” -- he eyed the nightstand, sleepy eyes slanted -- “and look at this most beautiful sight for just a bit? This is something, something so special, so precious, so rare.”  He smiled, reaching for her hair, petting it.

“Just for a bit.”  She looked at him through lowered lids; she could not keep her lover-smile off her face.

“If that is what a man can have, it is what he will take. Arya Stark, you are most beautiful. Most entrancing. Most lovely to wake up with.”

Arya felt her heart flutter.

 

She watched him sip his coffee, close his eyes and pull his eyebrows together, thinking.  She let him have his silence.  The questions that she had were too important to be rushed - and it was quite pleasant to sit in companionable silence with him, drinking coffee like they had all the time in the world.

Except they didn’t. And her patience ended, abruptly.

“How is my father involved in...in what you do?”  

_ An arrow, straight to the target. _

“Hmmm.”

_ A shield, deflecting, just for a moment. _

“Arya Stark.  Your father served the order that I do, but only for a bit. You might say he was one of the first ones - but he was driven by a specific goal, and he was lucky to leave with his life intact.  The work that I do is close to the same; we have one goal, but many targets.”

There were so many questions in this.  She just stared at him.

“Ned Stark had honor, and he had vengeance, and he was a powerful man; powerful in his conviction, powerful in his justice.  He took vengeance for a killing, of his sister Lyanna, and his vengeance brought down the highest powers.  For the world, this thing was good. The man that he wished vengeance on was a scourge, was a poison.  For him to take a life, that life saved so many others.”

He could see the question forming on her lips, shook his head.

“Does a lovely girl know when she asks too much?  I have given you more than I should, more than I can.  Trust me, now, that you will know what you need to.  And more, if I can.”

He continued. “After Ned Stark did his duty, he saw where the... _ process _ could be improved.  He helped to establish places, like this, around the world.  He helped refine the essence of what needed to be done, so that a greater number of lives could be saved.  Kings whispered to him, and if they were not worthy, he thundered back.”

His voice became gentler.

“Arya Stark.  Ned Stark’s death was a great loss, and he did not deserve to die, for all the lives he saved.”

She started to cry, silently.  _ Her father! _

He touched her gently and she struggled to pull her sadness back in.

She was not done with her questions.

“And so, when you leave here, what happens?  Europe, yes, yes...” -- she pre-empted him -- “But, I don’t understand  _ how _ .  Does someone tell you where to go, what to do?”

He was silent.

“If you can’t tell me  _ that, _ then tell me how I will find you, tell me how will I see you again?”

She snuffled; and cracked a small smile, pretending to wipe her face on him.

“A man has started to make arrangements.”

She wiped her eyes, smiled at him, and suddenly turned to straddle his lap.  _ Arrangements! _ She rained soft punches on his thighs, bounced like a child.  “Tell me!”

She kissed him softly.  “Tell me.” She whispered.

“Is there a place that a girl can receive a package?  This place is not safe, I would not have you endangered because...” --  he took his hand and traced from her forehead to her breast, circling her nipple, watching it stand at his fingertips -- “...because a man can not  _ seem  _ to be apart from a girl for longer than necessary.”

“I’m going back to Chicago. I need to see my sister, see my brother.  I’ll probably leave next week.”

He considered.

“Chicago is a big city. Where will a girl stay?”

“Sansa lives in Near North Side; I’ll be there.”

“Just so. And I will have a post office box opened for you there.  In ten days.” He grabbed a phone, looked up a location on the map.  Showed her.

“Sansa is right….there. Perfect.”

“In ten days from now, a girl will be able to hear from a man - but she must wait until he tells her it is safe.”  

His eyes were serious and he gripped her arms.

“Arya. Do you understand. You can not contact me; you  _ must _ wait.”

She shivered. “I understand.”

“I would not have a man’s endless foolishness - or a girl’s - bring her to harm.”

“Where will I…”

He covered her mouth with a kiss, and deepened it, then pulled away.

“Ten days, darling girl. The time for questions is over, only because you have received all of the answers I have to give.  Do not ask for more.”

She knew that he had crossed boundaries for her.  She did not ask for more information.

She grinned.

“Oh, the time for questions is over, is it?  Is that what  _ a man _ says? But what if I want more, need more, have to have more...and more....”

She bent down and flicked her tongue in his mouth, snakelike, reached down.

“Oh ravenous, most ravenous girl…”

He was ready for her.

  
  


Arya untangled herself from Jaqen ( _ again!  _ She thought,  _ shame! shame!  _ She smiled.)

The sun was all the way up; she looked for a clock in the room, didn’t see one.  It must be mid-morning.  Time, reality, had blurred for her in the past few days, in a tangle of limbs, feelings.  She shook her head, trying to shake herself back into some normalcy.  She had completely flown from her body. She smiled down at him, turned and grabbed a shirt from the ground.

“Jaqen...I think that I’ve been hypnotized...by  _ THAT _ .” She smirked, a little, pointing at him. They had, essentially, fucked each other beyond reason.

“ _ THAT - with you around wrapped around it -  _  happens to have hypnotized me, too,  _ insatiable, irresistible  _ girl. Wrapped around it in every possible way….”

She laughed, threw on the tee shirt, found her pants.  “We need to eat. And to think.”

She walked to the kitchen, opened a window to get some breeze, looked in the fridge.

_ I need to eat, I need _ \- she grimaced -  _ I really need to brush my teeth _ .  She realized how much she had escaped herself.

 

_ What the fuck have I gotten myself into?  _

 

The last few days had been a blur of whispers, limbs, little smiles.  She’d  _ fucked _ that man until she could barely think straight.  Oh,  _ that man  _ \- who told her he killed people for a living.  He wanted to meet her on  _ a little vacation _ .  If he lived. After he killed someone else.  

_ What the fuck am I thinking? Fucking murderer?  Stupid Arya! _

The morning light brought her to her senses. Food, actual food,  _ that would help. _  She cooked breakfast, looking out the window, trying to gather her thoughts without the pull of her desire, forcing her into a more rational track.

So, her lover was an assassin. Not a murderer. Purposeful. Intentional. An angel of death. A soldier. Sanctioned by some shadowy group that he could not, would not, tell her about. She tried to reconcile with herself:  _ like Jon, he’s like Jon, a different kind of war, a different kind of army... _

_And her father had been involved, too._ _HER FATHER!_ That was shocking; she had so much information given to her that she hadn’t yet reflected on.   _What in the actual fuck_ was going  on with Ned?

And this cabin had  _ sheltered _ them, even as she played in the creek and the woods all around it.

She stirred the eggs - _ fuck! _ \- quickly folded the browned edges into the rest of the scramble ruefully.  She had never been a good cook.

And now, he had invited her to meet him, despite the danger.  Danger that she completely glossed over.

She reached in the fridge, looked to see what was in it.  Cheese, that’ll fix the eggs.  She dumped some in, stirring and taking down the heat.  Bread...toaster….butter….jam...plates.

She brought him a plate, smiling almost a little shyly at the normalcy of bringing breakfast to him.  _ Normalcy...intoxicating normalcy...if only. _

Jaqen had been watching her, face serious as he lounged.  “Ahhh...something long forgotten...food.”  He took a bite of the eggs, looked down and grinned. “Food.  _ Almost.” _

Arya was used to her own cooking.  “Close enough.”  She smiled back.

He took a few bites, concentrated on the toast which had suffered less.   _ Hard to fuck up toast,  _ she thought.

_ Thank you, food, for some sanity.  _  She shook herself.

Somewhat restored, she started to talk.

“You gave me so much to think about this morning. Thank you, for sharing. I can’t imagine how strange it was to tell me, not to mention how strange it was to  _ hear _ it,” she said, reaching out to touch his knee, smiling.  “I’m trying to wrap my head around it. And still, I can’t tell even think about how much...I’ll miss you. Strange. Can’t wait to see you. After...well, after...you’re...done?”

She shrugged.

“I keep thinking about my dad.  I can’t believe that he was ever involved with anything so...so...well...  He was such an upright man, it’s really hard to believe what you’ve told me.”

He finished his plate, set it down; cleared his throat.

“Arya, I know that you’ve felt like a ghost since they died, sweet girl.  But have you tried to learn about your family, about his history?  Surely there are papers, memories that he kept?”

Arya shook her head.  “I hadn’t  _ really  _ looked.  My brothers, my sister - they all went back to their lives after the funeral.  It felt like they couldn’t wait to get back...it was a burden.”

 

“Where did they go?”

 

She started talking about her family. About Bran and Sansa, closest to her geographically.  About Jon in Afghanistan; her face softening as she spoke.  About Robb, out in Silicon Valley, always working, the most driven out of the siblings.  And her role in the family, the university student, political, more independant, sometimes the black sheep, sometimes the favorite.

“Do you miss them? A girl seems alone up here.”

“Yeah. I miss them.” She exhaled.  “But I also love to be alone up here.  I do. Chicago was wonderful, but sometimes it was just too much. A little maze, for little mice, lots of lights. This is the counterbalance for me. I need to be in the woods. Usually, each summer I am in the water the entire time, or riding for miles.”

“Does a girl follow a path or does she make her own?”  He smiled, gave her a gentle touch: not demanding, not asking...just...present.

She smiled.  She liked his questions, appreciated his boundaries.

“A girl makes her own.”

_ Her own - she wouldn’t let him make her path, either; unless it became THEIR path. _

She cleared her throat.  Reached for the arm that was stroking her leg.

“Jaqen, if I could keep you here and  _ stop time _ right now, I would. I don’t think I have ever, ever wanted anything so much.”

She screwed her face up, she truly did not want him to leave. “I want my path to intersect with yours, to cross it, over and over.”

His face was serious, like he picked his words carefully, choosing the right ones.

“Lovely girl. I have never wanted more to change my path to align with someone else’s. Truly. I would keep you as well.  But the duties I have - they define me. They are all that a man is.  _ Was.  _ Until a most intriguing girl arrived.  I  _ want _ you to come to me, if you are able - if it is on your path as well - when I finish this thing, this next thing.”

Briefly Arya wondered what that  _ thing _ was, monumental and horrible, yet he made it sound so inconsequential:  _ this thing _ . She wondered how many  _ things _ he had done in his life, what the impact of them were, on him, his psyche, on the world. How his hands could be so gentle with her...and yet still...

  
  
Jaqen pondered. _ Time, distance: not always kind to new lovers _ .  And away from her spell...well, let’s see how strong the enchantment is when a girl is not splayed out in front of him like his every secret dream come to life.  Let’s see how her sorcery works when she walks up to him in a month, in two months. _ Let’s see….   _

_ The vision of her striding towards him in an unnamed airport, her face lighting up as their eyes caught.. _

His imagination flickered, his feelings towered over him, guided his every movement, clouded his vision, consumed him.

He was normally a rational man. He had always been. Methodical, thoughtful, thorough, measured.  _ Usually. _

And in a few hours he had a job to do.

“ _ After. _ We will take some time to see what  _ this _ is. What  _ we _ are. And with that time will come some answers.”

She kissed him tenderly, softly; he returned it, memorizing the shape of her face and closing his eyes when he found that he could not bear the sight of it.

 


	7. if a girl changes her mind, a man will understand

Arya chewed her lip, trying to steady her voice.  It came out small.

“Jaqen, when?”

“Very, very soon, lovely girl, and I must prepare.  If a girl would help, I could see her face for longer.”

“Of course.”  It came out barely more than a whisper.

_ Ridiculous. _ She thought to herself.  _  He didn’t even exist to you a few days ago. He was no one. _

She had to push through this. Gather some power.  _ Strong as a bear. _

She forced her mouth into a smile. “Even a secret, sneaky  _ no one  _ has to pack his own luggage, eh? Sounds like a  _ someone _ to me, an ordinary old someone. You sure you have to leave?”

He stretched himself in the bed, turned to her and met her feigned, mouth-only smile with one of his own. “Just so.”  He looked over...her underwear lay on the ground by him. He picked them up and grinned, briefly pressing them to his nose.  “Wicked girl...make sure that we put this in my suitcase. If this is what a man can get...”

Arya grinned and bowed her head.  “ _ Then that is what a man will take _ . God, you’re so, so fucking  _ bad _ . Use them wisely.”  She laughed, and spread her legs open, pulling one leg over her shoulders, pointing her toe.  _ I know what you see, Jaqen.  _  “Here, a visual to go along with them. A gift to keep you...busy.”

She laughed at herself. “What have you done to me? Just..I’m so fucking filthy with you,  _ for  _ you.  _ Your  _ filthy one.  _ Yours _ .”

  
  
  
  


Packing. A pile of laptops. Files full of papers, pictures. Pictures of men, mainly; she saw faces that she did not recognize. One image was of a woman, beautiful except for the twisted, mean look on her face; her hair was blond.  Arya felt a flicker of recognition, but the name and place did not come to her.

He neatly filled a nondescript duffle bag and put laptops into a leather case.  She was cognizant that every single movement he made brought him closer to completing his task, leaving.  _ FUCK. _

She felt herself stifled by the sadness in the bedroom and she busied herself elsewhere, anywhere else in the house that she could: washing dishes, folding blankets, closing and locking windows.  Purpose.

Jaqen came out, brought his bags and put them by the door.  He motioned to her. He had been quiet since their talk that morning.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“Does a girl remember where our post office is?”

She nodded.

“You will have a box there.  In ten days, a girl will walk into the post office.  She will say her name; the box will have a phone in it.”

“This phone is not to be used; this is very important.  _ Wait for me, Arya. _ The phone will ring for you when I call you, or perhaps a man will send a message.  Any other use of it could alert those who wish us harm to my location, or yours. When I’m finished I’ll let you know; you will also receive tickets for the plane at that post office box.”

“A girl has a passport, yes?”

Arya nodded; it was in Ned’s desk.  Her eyes were round, the seriousness of his situation becoming tangible.

“Good. We will get you a new one as well, once you have made the first leg of the journey. If a girl wishes to prepare, it would be to her advantage to study her French. If she is able to start to listen to some Arabic and understand some, this would be a great help as well. The written language is difficult; a girl’s time would be best spent trying to understand and to speak. To hear.”

He cleared his throat, looked down.

“Arya. If a girl changes her mind, a man will understand.  Just so. This is no joking thing, and a girl may find that she wishes for something less...complicated.  If that is the case, just take the phone and destroy it. Throw it in your godforsaken lake, burn it in the fireplace.  Say nothing to me.”

“And if that is the case, know that a man will always, forever, treasure his few days with his Arya Stark.”

_ How could he even say that? _ Arya clenched her hand to still herself.  _ Calm as still water. _ She shook her head.

“Jaqen. I have to see you again. I have to. I will.”

He touched her face and she could see his eyes were red.

“Just so.”

 

He picked her up, and took her back to the bedroom.  He slowly removed her clothes and then his, keeping his mouth on her.  He touched her softly, reverently, and she clutched him desperately.

This was goodbye, solemn, final. A dance of lovers parting. She straddled his lap and rocked lazily down on him as if stretching out the feeling of this moment for as long as possible.

His face pressed against her breast, languidly sucking at her nipple and she wound her fingers wound tightly in his coarse, wavy hair, keeping his head against her.  She moved deliberately down on him, waiting for every sensation, savoring it and then creating another with a small movement of her hips, gripping him as tightly as she could with her core until she had to force herself down on him.

They undulated slowly until they could hold off no longer and their movements became more urgent, erratic and he guided her, pulling her up and down him as if she weighed nothing, pulling her more closely so that he could fit her more perfectly with each sheathing; her voice spilling out of her, her orgasm finally inescapable, teased out by him as he pushed her pelvis down harshly on him and arching his back to penetrate her as fully as he possibly could. They climaxed, arms wrapped tightly around each other, face to face, eyes open as their panting broke past their kisses, their hot wetness spreading out of her, watching each other’s pleasure intermingled with sadness, their last shared breaths escaping into the room and dissipating into the forest outside.

 

 

She walked him outside. Numb. There was an airstrip about an hour away in Marquette.  He would drive there and fly off to god knows where, and do god knows what.  For god knows how long.

She couldn’t process it, any of it. Her eyes kept to the ground, meeting his only after he’d packed the car and leaned up against it.

They kissed silently and his fingers lingered on her face, her neck, and he murmured goodbye to her, breaking away from her only after clutching her so tightly that she thought she’d shatter into a million little pieces and float off into the wind.

He was leaving. Leaving.  _ He was gone _ . She watched him drive off. As he drove towards the main road she waited until she could see him no longer, and only then allowed the numbness to succumb to the sharp sob that ricocheted through her.

She kept the last image of his face, just as drawn and sad as her own, and tucked it away as she chose the long path home.  She walked slowly along the shore of Lake Superior back to Winterfell.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She hadn’t taken her phone with her to the cabin; it lay absurdly quiet, like a dead bird in her hand. No charge left.  She plugged it in, poured a glass of wine, and went up to take a bath. 

While the tub was filling, she went into her room, looked at her bookshelf.  She  _ did  _ know French; she had some rudimentary knowledge of it from their stay in Paris, and had taken a few years of it in college.  Arabic? Not so much.

College. Chicago.

She grabbed one of the books that she had,  _ en francais, _ a Simone De Beauvoir novel.  She took it into the bathroom with her, turned the tap off, and slipped into the hot water.

She washed herself, looking at her body. She had been kissed on almost every part of it; small purple marks showed where his mouth had lingered too long.  OH JAQEN.

 

The words on the page blurred together, indecipherable, and she set the book down, allowed the water to soak through her, soothe her.  When it cooled she got out, dressed and braved Rickon’s room to grab the cigarettes that she knew he had kept contraband in his teenage angst ( _ RICKON...a stab at her gut as she looked at his room, untouched since his death)  _ and sat outside. She stared at the surface of the water, unseeing, nursing her wine and the cigarettes.  _  I’m wallowing, _ she thought, and she proceeded to wallow until the bottle was empty and her head spun.   _ Fucking wasted, I’m wasted.  _ She staggered back into the house and lay down on the closest couch.  _ Just for a moment, just to rest before those hell-stairs, so many _ ...she fell asleep within minutes.  

Her dreams were vivid, fitful; cities that she did not know; something lost and then found, and then lost again; an unknown anxiousness rising up through them.

 

 

 

Jaqen’s first plane landed, in an airstrip outside of Toronto.  He grabbed his bag, moved from the small plane to a waiting SUV.

The driver greeted him with the cold professionalism of a government employee.

Jaqen closed his eyes as they drove to the airport in Toronto. When he heard the engine turn off, he opened them.

He took out a passport; he was now Jean.  He moved to the commercial flights, went through security, and boarded a plane. Final destination: Budapest.

He tried not to think of her. A Sisyphean task, to be repeated over and over until his lovely girl was able to be in his arms again. _ Focus. _

_ His next target, then. _  He had never killed a father and son; both of them snakes, both of them evil.

He pulled up an image from his memory: Roose Bolton’s face under him, waiting for the final blow.  The man’s pale eyes finally had fear in them; thin lips contorted in pain.  Jaqen played the image in his head and watched the life leave Roose Bolton’s eyes, over and over until the tangle of long legs and hair finally left his thoughts.

  
  
  


_ The sun is an asshole, _ Arya thought.

_ Fuck you, sun. _

It streamed merrily through the great room windows, shining like it didn’t have a care in the world.

Her head, her mouth...all felt like they were stuffed with clods of dirt.

She flipped and flopped on the couch, but that sun wouldn’t stop shining down on her, wouldn’t let her sleep anymore.

One foot moved, then the other. And she found herself in front of the coffee pot, waiting for it to finish. Arya stood in priestlike devotion, her head lowered.

_ Torture. _

After the last little drop of water took its sweet time making way through the grinds and into the pot, Arya poured herself a cup, burnt her tongue, and let out a string of swear words that would have made Sansa hide, had she been there.

But she wasn’t.

_ Nobody was. _

Arya stilled herself, blew on the coffee, and tried again.  

Better.

She got a glass of water, another cup of coffee, moved outside, under the shade of a big maple tree, sat and looked out over the water with swollen eyes.

 

 

Three cups of coffee later, she paddled out.

She dove under, held her breath.  The sun shone on the water, subdued underneath; great big limestone rocks below her feet.  Small fish dared approach and just as quickly, vanished in a silvery flash.

She surfaced, floated on her back, waiting for a flash of inspiration. When it came, it was more mundane that she had hoped.

 

_ She needed to get her shit together. _

  
  
Jory was her first task. She went to the stable to look for him, found him right where she hoped he would be.

“There she is.”  Jory’s smile was curious, as if he had noticed her absence at the house over the past few days. He gave her a hug.

“Here I am, for all the world to see,” she said, grinning. “Jory, got a sec?”

They moved over by the tack room; the leather smell was comforting for both of them.

“Jory. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, now?”

“For being selfish. A child.”

She swallowed, continued. “You’re upset too, and I made you keep taking care of me, of the house without even noticing.  I didn’t give you any space to grieve. I’m so sorry, Jory.”

He started to speak but she shushed his protestations. She reached into her pocket.  “I wanted to give you something of my dad’s.”

The keys to Ned’s truck, this year’s model, dangled.

“I haven’t gone through his stuff yet, Jory, and I know this isn’t personal, but it’s practical. I want you to have it, he’d want you to have it.  You’re family, too, and we need you here.”

“Arya, I really can’t.”

“You can, and  _ you will. _ It truly is the very least we can do.”

She kept going.

“Jory, I’m going to see Sansa, and going to travel for a little bit. What do you need to keep everything running?”

They talked the business of the estate; hiring roofers to make sure everything was ready for winter, workers to fix the dock and maintain the pathways and fences.. They talked about the animals, whether to sell a few of the horses now that their riders had diminished? Arya shook her head - the family horses could eat all the hay in the Upper Peninsula if they wanted to, she would pay whatever it took to keep them fat and happy on the land.

As their business drew down, Arya asked another question. “Jory, do you know when anyone else is coming out to that cabin? Or do they just show up?”

Jory’s eyes narrowed, just a bit. “Arya, I saw you with that fellow.”

She startled, reddened a bit.

“I don’t know when they come,” he continued, “and I don’t know when they go - I just know that they do.  This was something that your Da didn’t want to talk about.”

“But surely he talked about it sometimes?” She ignored the comment about Jaqen.

Jory sighed. “When Lyanna was killed, your dad lost a piece of him. Your aunt - she looked just like you, you know, and that’s why he favored you so.  When he came back from wherever you all were traipsing around at, Europe or whatever, he told me about the cabin, told me to stay away from it unless he specifically asked.  It was a real big deal to him, and again, it was something he never wanted to talk about.”

His eyes crinkled a bit as he spoke to her.

“So we didn’t.”

Arya kissed him on the cheek and breathed in his sweet cigar smell, so much like Ned’s.

“Thanks, Jory.”

 

 

Arya stood in her father’s office and groaned. FUCK YOU, PETYR BAELISH, she thought, the phrase had turned into her chant for avoiding the paperwork. At this point it had nothing to do with Littlefinger.

She couldn’t stay in there longer than she needed to. She grabbed Ned’s laptop and charger, her passport...and then, the little box that she had found in her digging earlier that week, the State Department seal facing up at her as she walked it to her suitcase.

She looked at her phone for the first time since plugging it in the night before. Good grief.

She furiously scanned the texts for one from Jon; nope, no calls either.  She ignored all of the ones from Sansa - she’d get caught up later, and probably get an earful... but she just wasn’t ready yet.

_ Sansa, I’m coming to Chicago,  _ she texted,  _ I’ll see you soon. _

She closed the doors to Winterfell, grabbed her suitcase, backpack, got in her car, and drove to long-term parking at the Marquette airport.

 

_ Goodbye, Winterfell.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the first arc of the story on a bit of a sad note. So sad, in fact, that [here's Arya's headmusic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7gutsi1uT4) as Jaqen took off for god knows where. 
> 
>  


	8. chicagoland

 

“Bran, Bran, Bran!!!”

Arya couldn’t help but grab her little brother and twirl him around when he opened the door.

Bran laughed, a little concerned. The demonstrative one in the family was Sansa, not Arya. “I think you’ve been up there by yourself for too long.”

Sansa pattered down the hallway.  Red hair and white limbs flew and Arya found herself entirely in her sister’s embrace.

Arya, with great effort, kept herself together.

“Ah, it’s good to be with the civilized Starks, down here in the big city.”  She flashed teeth for a smile that she hoped would make up for her eyes, those terrible betrayers, showing the world her secret sadness.

Arya commandeered an overstuffed chair in the living room, flopped her legs over the arm and closed her eyes.  Opened them again.  Two sets of eyes on her.  _ How to begin living among humans again… _

“So. Have you missed me? Couldn’t live without me?”  Humor, humor would be the best way.

Sansa laughed. “We’re just  _ withering  _ away down here, in this boring city, waiting for our northern savior to come and force us out to the deep woods, maybe take a swim in the pristine Chicago River.”  She threw a pillow at Arya.  

Arya flicked an arm out, snatched the pillow out of midair. “San, can I stay in your home office for a few days?  I am not ready to face my apartment.”  She grimaced.  “Or the food I left in the fridge...months ago.”  

Sansa smiled.

“Yes.  We’ll get Willas to leave you in peace.  Just so long as you don’t plant any frogs in there, or in my room.”  That was the least of the tortures Sansa had endured when they were young...

“Are there frogs here? Where?!!”  Arya grinned, threw the pillow back.  Ah...her siblings….

 

 

Sansa had insisted.  She certainly was  _ insistent _ ...

Arya cleaned herself up, face to face with her mirror image, in triplicate, in Sansa’s bathroom.  They were going out to a proper dinner, candles, flowers, all of it: Willas was working late, and surely Arya wanted to go  _ out _ after being up in the woods for the past few months?

She looked in the mirror, saw the other Aryas peek at her from different angles.  She was a hot mess.  Her eyes were puffy, always too big for the rest of her face; her nose was red; her lips chapped.  A pimple on her chin.  It was hard to believe that this was a face that anyone could have kissed so fervently.  Away from Winterfell and into the city, the whole encounter with Jaqen felt like a fairy tale that she had made up, embellished, told herself to allay her loneliness.

_ We’ll see what happens in ten...in nine...days.   _

 

 

 

They walked, companionably, to the restaurant.  It was hot; Chicago in August was steamy and the air was close.  Arya had twisted her hair into a bun, messy; the one concession that Sansa gave her; the jeans and Vans Arya had put on before leaving were dismissed, and Sansa had dressed her in something a bit more….fancy.  Insisted on it.

Sansa looped her arm in Arya’s, completely disregarding the heat and the sweat.

They made their destination, grabbed a table, got a menu.  Arya waited until they settled; she pulled up the silky shirt that seemed to want to fall off her shoulders.

Sansa had shown great restraint. Arya had been sure she would have been grilled mercilessly within minutes of her arrival.  Sansa had given her some space, but now she had her trapped in this restaurant, the tinkle of a piano invading Arya’s thoughts, and Arya could see the questions rising in her sister’s eyes.

Arya decided to play offense.

“Sansa. Listen. It was good to be home, but honestly I just hid out for the past few months.  I had to.  I don’t know what happened. Well, I do...” Arya gestured widely, felt stupid.  “...But I don’t know how I crumbled so completely.  I just felt like I couldn’t leave.  But now I’m here.  And I’m glad to see you, and Bran, and in a bit I’m going to do some more traveling.”

“What about school?  You only have a little bit left, Arya, why don’t you finish and  _ then  _ travel?”

Arya shook her head. She wasn’t ready yet to commit to that, and even if there was no message from Jaqen, she would buy plane tickets, find some unseen corners of the world, fill the ache inside her with newness.

“San, I’ll be fine. I’ll keep my apartment here, I’ll be back.”  She grabbed Sansa’s hand, smoothed hers over it. Her hand felt like sandpaper touching silk.

Sansa laughed, felt it. “Will you let me de-North you before you go? A haircut, maybe, too?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “YES, SANSA.”

They talked through dinner, a little bit about how Bran was doing, a little bit about Robb - he was working like a madman, might have a girlfriend out in Palo Alto.  Arya told Sansa about Jon, that he was on a mission; their brows furrowed together in tandem as they shared a dark look.  They had already lost enough.

“To mom and dad.”  They toasted, sadly.  Arya saw her sister’s eyes shimmer; she reached out for her hand.

“They were amazing.  We were so lucky, San.”

They both nursed their wine, deep in their thoughts.

 

Walking back, Sansa’s phone had started to buzz and beep and Sansa was getting excited.  “Arya, we have to go out tonight.  No, we have to.  Willas’ friends will be out, and I wanted you to meet his brother Loras.  And there’s so much to do tonight - come on, Arya, I haven’t seen you in months, I miss you here in Chicago.”

Arya smiled.  “Sansa. Don’t you ever tell anyone I said this, but I missed you, too.”

It was easier to let Sansa steer her around right now, and she was grateful for the distraction as she mentally sorted herself out.  She realized that Jaqen had no way to contact her, no phone number, she didn’t have a picture, he didn’t exist anywhere.  She realized, ruefully, that she no longer had that pleasant soreness between her legs.  

If he didn’t send the phone, he might as well not exist.

Sansa’s husband Willas was actually a pretty good guy.  _ For Sansa. _ He was smart, kind, slightly boring, good at making money.  His whole family was stinking rich.  Arya was terrified that Sansa would try to set her up with Willas’ brother. When he walked in her worries evaporated. It was clear as day that Loras was interested in men.  Arya couldn’t believe that Sansa didn’t know.  He was a little twat, too, pretentious, prettier than Arya, ordering sauvignon blanc at the bar.  

Arya drank three glasses of wine in quick succession, stared around the room.  Oh GOD.

She looked over and immediately hid her face from Gendry.  What in the fuck was he doing there?  She realized that Thoros was there as well.  Can that man say no to getting dragged ANYWHERE? _ Fucking stupid Gendry. _

Arya pretended that she was someone else, some other impostor in the fancy wine bar.   _ Fuck. _ He was walking over, stupid Gendry.

“Hey.  Arrrrrrya.”  For one moment she thought of how Jaqen emphasized the Y in her name, not the R like Gendry.   _ Stupid Gendry. _

“Oh hi Gendry.” She put her most dismissive voice on.

“Hey - I am really sorry about your family.  Really am, r-really sorry.”

_ Stupid Gendry was practically stuttering. Idiot. _

“Thanks, Gendry, not really what I want to talk about right now, my dead parents, but thanks anyways.”

_ FLICK.  Burn.  _ She’d guilt him away from her if she needed to, she was not above it.

“Oh, yeah, well. Hey, do you want to -”

“God, Gendry, no, I don’t want to do anything.  Except have some more wine.  Which I will get,  _ myself _ , and then drink,  _ myself. _ ”  Arya felt no qualms about trading rudeness for stupidity.  She stomped away, hoping that the black cloud around her was a palpable enough force field to stop his advances.  

It did.

Sansa was a happy drunk.  Arya, well, tonight Arya was a pensive, slightly mean drunk, and she practically seethed in desire to go home while Sansa burbled around her friends.  Arya couldn’t wait any longer.  She muttered something to Sansa, turned on her heel, stomped out of the bar.

All of those faces, and none of them, really, the right ones.

 

 

Arya woke up the next day still in a foul mood and decided, for the peace of the family, to get out of the house before anyone else woke up.  She grabbed her keys, scribbled a note and walked to the train station to head back to her apartment. 

It was strange to her that it was exactly as she left it - although,  _ of course it would be, stupid -  _ she thought to herself as she set her keys down, wrinkled her nose and cleared out of fridge, took out the trash, straightened the mess that she left the day that she had packed up to go north for spring break.

Thank god she still had coffee, she made a pot and flicked on the TV, tried to escape herself.

The news.

_ “In Europe, we’re covering breaking news.  Ramsay Bolton, thought to be involved in the Paris terror attacks, was spotted in Budapest today at the train station.  He had been keeping a low profile since the still unsolved murder of his father, the notorious Roose Bolton, earlier this summer.  The younger Bolton is considered to be propagating a European arm of ISIL, and his appearance has international security agencies tightening their grip.” _

_ “In other news, the Republican candidate for - _ ” Arya changed the channel.  She couldn’t handle the election this cycle, even though it normally enthralled her.  She sighed, drained her coffee, moved to the table and sorted through the detritus of normal life, mail and papers, that she’d left untended.

She got the apartment to a decent state, drained the rest of her coffee, and decided to walk back to Sansa’s.  She wondered if she would feel like she was sleepwalking for the entire week.

_ The next eight days. _

 

  
  
He adjusted his stance, slightly. His vantage point, behind an empty storefront, gave him a brief window into the passerby as the citizens of Budapest went along their business on the Nagykörút, the Grand Boulevard.  

He had been watching, waiting, and listening for the past few hours.  His mark was a few doors down, having gone up to the apartment; stayed up there.  It was one of Ramsay’s recruiters.  He was somewhat difficult to track; average build, generic trainers and gray sweatshirt; the type of man that could be a thug, a student, a tourist, or a rich man on a stroll.  Jaqen briefly appreciated this ability to morph. His hand tightened on his gun.

_ There. _

The man came out, slipped down the sidewalk without a glance back. Jaqen waited for about ten seconds, counting breaths, and stalked out the door behind him.

_ Ah, back to the mosque.  Very well. _

The  Dar Al Salam mosque in Budapest's 11th District did not qualify as one of the more beautiful mosques he had...visited...in his travels.  He had gone in for prayer and reconnaissance a few times; the low ceiling felt oppressive.  The men around him were diverse, wonderful; they represented the backbone of the communities that he had grown to love.  

He felt sadness that they had let a few snakes into their midst, thinking with a touch of gladness that at least they had not been completely infiltrated. This was normal prayer, not a place to plan.  The snakes had other places to coil up in, and Jaqen’s primary target was not Muslim, had some fear and the air of superiority that was still in the blood and bones of some Western European men.

There. And there.

Jaqen quickly, quietly, snapped their images with the small camera, the voices of the men’s prayers plaintively hitting the low ceiling, dulling as the sound bounced in the room.

At the end of the prayer, Jaqen watched his targets mingle and disappear, one by one, but all out the same door.  He’d better make his move, but he needed to wait until they had gathered up all of the human elements for their plan.  Best to kill as many snakes as possible in one go, than to leave a few slithering out to cause more damage later, seeking revenge.

 

 

He saw the snake he was looking for; saw his pale skin and small eyes.  Where Roose Bolton had an aquiline nose and the haughty look of a privileged man, the son’s cruelty was written on his face, eyes small and narrowed, mouth perpetually twisted.  Ramsay Bolton was not a stupid man, but he was one that was singularly driven and without conscience. Jaqen found great pleasure in taking Roose Bolton’s life; he would take pleasure from ending Ramsay’s, too.  Like father, like son.

Ramsay Bolton dealt with cruelty in big and small ways.  He left a trail of disfigured whores behind him. Jaqen’s gut twisted as he thought of one that he had seen in the past few days, eyes blackened, limping, lips swollen and bloody.  His largest cruelty, however, was still in the planning stages, and that was what Jaqen meant to stop.

It was hard to understand what type of savagery he was stopping.  Would that man’s plan succeed and take out hundreds of innocents?  What type of political implications would it have if one of his victims, unwittingly, was the son of the political leadership?  Or if there was a group of Americans, it would rile the US, possibly into action.  The bomb could go off too late, too early, someone would tip it off or it could go exactly as planned, murdering hundreds of  innocents in a twisted display brought on to profane the name of the religion that he knew as peaceful, as solace.

Jaqen knew Ramsay Bolton’s plans were coalescing and that meant that Jaqen’s optimal time was coming soon as well.   _ But not today _ .  He moved lazily, slowly, caught in the pulse of the crowd and vanished, moving toward the apartment he was staying in.  He allowed himself the pleasure of going off-task mentally; allowed a vision of a heart shaped face, pale.   _ Soon… _

 

 

  
  


Arya had settled into routine.  She’d been in Chicago for five days.  She’d grab Bran and they’d play tennis early in the morning to get her blood flowing.  Sansa had been busy, organizing details for a fundraiser, raising money for music programs in Chicago’s south side.  It was a good role for Sansa; she was a natural connector and people wanted to spend time with her, especially the moneyed and young Chicagoans that had more than they could ever want but always seemed to want more.  Better that they do it and open their wallets for someone who really needs it instead of frittering it, Arya thought with some disdain for Sansa’s circle.

Bran had been a delight, her brother was thoughtful and smart, and they went on endless walks through the city, talking about politics, her brother laying out his plans for university.  Bran was a genius, sensitive; he was an old soul in his young body, and Arya ached to see the pain that briefly flashed across his eyes whenever they were reminded of their parents.

And so Chicago became her new normal, temporarily.

 

 

 

Arya had memorized the block around the post office that she would be visiting, two days from now, having spent one in Winterfell since Jaqen’s departure and eight in Chicago.  She had stopped into her apartment for hours at a time, but preferred to stay with her family. Sansa was a gracious host, and Willas was kind and very accepting of the Stark brood overrunning their flat.  The three Starks talked a lot; they lay in a lump and watched movies; they walked through the parks and streets.  She still hadn’t heard from Jon, but they called Robb together, made him get on video, asked him for a tour of his office, laughed at his ping pong table.  

Her family made Arya feel pleasingly full, took away the sharp edge of ache, and together the Stark family started to heal.

 

 

It was three a.m. in Budapest.  Jaqen slept lightly, woke and settled back, woke and settled back. His thoughts ranged from his target ( _ it’s coming, you little useless snake _ ) to the break that he would take when it was over.  He thought of her; sweet thoughts of her face; her hair floating like a mermaid’s in that freezing lake; desirous visions of her standing over him, her face flushed as she pleasured herself above him.

He took himself in hand, stroked vigorously, straining to remember her scent, the softness of her skin. _  Arya, Arya, Arya.  _ He wondered if she would meet him, wondered if his colleagues had kept up their end of the bargain and delivered the phone.  What he would do when he saw her.  Picking her up, a wraith, a slight little thing, and delivering kisses on her face.  Her eyes as she looked up at him, mouth around his cock, hands all over, eyes narrowed and dark.  The last vision that he had was of his hands moving up and down her body, the softness of her skin and the taut muscles underneath, and his imagination took over and he came in real life just as he did in his vision, disappointment only surfacing after his orgasm waned, vision dissipated, and he found himself alone.

  
  


 

 

Arya’s thoughts had been circling around Ned’s things, untouched since her arrival, not knowing if she would find anything, not wanting to work herself up for nothing.  She didn’t know the first way to go about finding out anything about Jaqen’s strange confession concerning Ned. Jory had confirmed some of the strangeness of the time for Ned but not the more horrible revelation, that perhaps Ned had been... _ a what _ , Arya couldn’t think.. _.a murderer?  An assassin?  Her dad?? _

_ The laptop, let’s ask it.  _ Getting through the screen lock was no big deal; they all knew that password.  She opened a browser window, checking his bookmarks.  History sites, marked; a few pages bookmarked on fishing, some industry-related sites for what was left of their mining enterprise.  She tried to open his email; nothing.  

The documents, then. She searched aimlessly; god, her father, no security on the files; typical of his generation, unwitting about the capabilities of a computer.

She scanned, looking by date, doubting she’d find anything. What would he do, write an essay?  She kept digging; nothing.  Deeper, now.  She paused.  The document was titled Lyanna; it was just a few images of her aunt on a doc. Arya was disappointed.  

 

 

  
_ Lyanna Stark was Arya’s aunt, and by all of the faded, 80’s orange and blue tinted images that her family had kept of her, looked a lot like Arya. Only prettier, Arya thought, Less Arya, more of a woman. She had been spirited; moved through the States, a spell in London, and came back to New York to tangle herself romantically with one of Ned Stark’s friends, Robert Baratheon.  Arya could remember Robert, too - he was the type of man to insist that you call him Uncle, and then he’d look at you like a piece of meat.  _

_ Catelyn had seen it once, years after Lyanna died and Robert remarried, and Arya remembered hearing her mother talk in urgent but hushed tones to Ned. “For god’s sake, Ned, he looks at her like she’s Lyanna.  She’s 7. Tell him to keep his eyes in his head; it’s disgusting.” _

_ After that, Robert Baratheon didn’t figure in her life anymore; Ned and Catelyn made sure of it. _

_ Lyanna had ended her whirlwind romance with Robert Baratheon by entering into another one, just as hastily, twice as passionate.  Rhaegar - what a name, Arya thought - had swept her off her feet, literally, and courted her, living with her in London and then moving her to Moscow.  Ned had been beside himself with worry, unable to reach her reliably.  Robert Baratheon had kept up a steady, vocal drumbeat of anger, even after he took another woman when Lyanna left him, that fucking stupid cunty little bitch, Arya thought, Cersei Lannister.   _

_ Ned - and Robert - never saw Lyanna again after she moved out of London.  She was brutally murdered in Moscow, six months pregnant; body left in the street. Ned was initially livid, suspecting Rhaegar, but softened, seeing that he was apparently despondent, suicidal.  It was shortly after this that Ned moved the family to Washington DC and then to Paris.   _

_ The last time Arya had seen Robert Baratheon was when he brought his nightmare circus of a family up to Winterfell, “For old times sake”, staying at Winterfell to fish and drink beer with her dad, Cersei Lannister walking up and down the halls looking at the house as if it was covered in shit and would infect her; and Cersei’s oldest son, Joff, that fucking stupid cunty little bitch, Arya thought, had stalked Sansa, who initially delighted in it, charmed. Joff went on to blacken Sansa’s eye because she cried out loud when he ripped her panties off, and Sansa never quite believed in fairy tales after that. _

_ Oh, Lyanna, you poor thing, woulda been fucked if you ended up with a Baratheon, but you were dead with a Targaeryan, _ she thought.

 

 

One day left, one day left.  Arya waited for Bran to come over and resisted the urge to walk over and circle round the post office.  _ Again. _ She didn’t know what would happen anyhow - so she got the phone, then what?  It didn’t mean he was going to call right away.  Maybe he’d never call. He could die and she would have no idea - it wasn’t like she had any way to find him, the name of his organization, or anything at all.  Arya was losing the smell of him, the touch of him from her muscle memory, and now she pleasured herself on abstract thoughts, the slant of an eye or the way that his lips pouted rather than the remembrance of what his touch felt like.  She sighed; she was acting so stupid.

_ What if she didn’t find him? _

That was a question that she had run through her mind, bookended with other questions so that she didn’t have to really answer it.  But what would she do then?  She cursed herself for acting like such a foolish girl; steeled herself against potential disappointment.

Travel, then she should finish her last few semesters.  Arya pulled out her books.  _ Contemporary Political Theory. Cases in Comparative Politics. International Relations, Contemporary Theories.   _ She chose one, sat reading it like a novel, curled into a ball on her couch until Bran knocked on her door.

 

 

Bran looked a little tired.  Arya messed his hair, welcomed him in. She smiled at him; her little brother was always so serious.  Like a little man.  “Because I love you, brother, I have decided against cooking for you - let’s order in.”

Bran made a face of relief. “You really do love me, eh?”

They sat companionably, eating Chinese - one thing she could not reliably find in the Upper Peninsula, and certainly not delivered - and watching the Shawshank Redemption.  Bran stopped the movie, turned to Arya.

“Hey, listen. I wanted to tell you something. I keep having this really vivid dream and I can’t shake it.”

Arya’s eyebrows rose. This was out of character for him.

“Arya, I just…” he was mumbling, reddened. “I can see them on the boat.”

Tears quietly running down both of their faces. 

“I keep dreaming of their deaths, but it’s not what I thought it was. Arya, in my dream, they were shot by two men, and after that the boat was pulled over to the rocks, everything broken up. Arya, in my dream they were _ murdered. _ ”

Arya was horrified; she drew Bran to her and tried to comfort him, draw comfort from him. He started to sob; she could tell that he was trying to still himself, saw his fists clench and felt him take a breath.

“I’m sorry, Arya, I didn’t mean to just come over here and bomb you with that.”

“No, no, no, Bran. God, please, you  _ can _ tell me this, you can tell me  _ anything _ . Really. Have you told Sansa?”

Bran shook his head. Arya commiserated: Sansa would run with this.  She’d lose her head. Or worse, she’d dismiss it completely and make Bran feel stupid about it.

Arya shuddered, shook the cobwebs off, shook the weirdness off.  “I don’t know what you saw in your dream, and that doesn’t make it real, but...just make sure you let me know if you keep having it…” her voice trailed…”and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that you have to see that, over and over.”

Bran left and Arya couldn’t sleep. She grabbed her wine, and the cigarettes that she had bought after using up Rickon’s contraband, pushing the smoke out of her nose while listening to conversational Arabic lessons through the laptop.  

_ Eshtaqto elaika katheera.   _

_ Tu me manques beaucoups.  _

I missed you so much.

 

 

  
  


The sun came up; Chicagoland was boiling already, sticky.  Today was the day, ten days from when Jaqen had left.  She pulled the sentence from her memory, curving tendrils of fondness around the thought of his voice, slow and soft, the strange accent changing the shape of some of the vowels.  

_ “ _ _ In ten days, a girl will walk into the post office.  She will say her name; the box will have a phone in it.” _

She needed some water.  Bran’s strange dream, and his distress in confessing it added to the thoughts clouding her mind.  She did not know how to process them.  _ Clarity!  _ She snorted.

She needed to swim.  She turned her nose up at Lake Michigan; it was prettier the further north you went... but _ Illinois Lake Michigan… _ it would have to do. She made her way to the beach and paddled out.  Once she got out far enough she floated on her back.  The water was cold, but still warmer than Lake Superior.  

She was two minds on everything, she was dark and light, she was here and there, she was hopeful and despondent.

She couldn’t wait to have the phone, some tangible evidence of Jaqen in her hands.  She could also not bear to show up, asking for something that was not there, a gift promised yet not given.

_ She was being stupid. _

She dove to escape herself.

The water was murkier than her preference; the movement on the lake bobbed her up and down.  She surfaced, and then swam back to the shore, pushing her muscles to burn, willing her body to use up the nervous tension that had accumulated around her muscles, her bones, to tire her mind.

 

 

Hair still wet, but frizzing from the steamy day, Arya walked around the post office.  She was, quite literally, a hot mess; she smelled like the lake and her eyes were puffy from wine.  

She walked in front of it one more time, paying close attention to the lightposts in front of it  _ (one, two, three lightposts wide _ ) and there was one trash can and  _ one, two three _ newspaper racks in front.  She drew in her breath, grabbed her wallet out of her backpack; and walked in.

She waited in line, cleared her throat when she made it to the front.

It still came out like a child’s voice.  “I believe someone set up a box for me?”

She handed the clerk her ID, remembered Jaqen’s words.  “My name is Arya Stark.”

She didn’t know what she was expecting to happen, but the clerk came back with a small key and a slip of paper with the number of her box written on it; he barely glanced up at her as he waved in the direction of the box; he was grayed and dulled and nothing.

Her hands were shaking as she tried to steady the key.  There. Three down, two over in the massive bank of post office boxes.  Arya briefly wondered what they all contained; were there hundreds of people in this town, hands shaking, waiting for something like what she was waiting for?

She opened the box. Inside was a large padded envelope.

She took all of her strength to calmly put the envelope in her backpack, to not tear into it right there like an animal, and she whirled out to catch the train to her apartment.

Once inside, she set it on the table.  She summoned up her strength, again, to not rip it into it; stalled herself by finding scissors and cutting the top; lit a cigarette, sat down, and pulled out an iPhone box.  She opened that first, took the phone out. She tapped it open, and its electronic face lit up, the default screensaver coming up and then waving away.

The phone was almost completely blank but for the default apps.  She looked at the message icon.  There was one text.

She opened it, exhaled. A text from a phone number with too many characters to be real.

“So you now have this phone. Lovely girl, do not call, do not text, you cannot. Remember that. My duties are going well and should be completed by the middle of August.  I will call you then. A lovely girl dances in my thoughts.

 

_ FUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKHHHHHHH. _

 

Arya exhaled. Giddy.   _ He was alive, he was alright, she would see him.   _

She cried - _ again! _ she thought - and laughed, maniacally and got up and paced the room.  She read it again, hearing his voice in her head saying the words.  

She was beside herself.  Then she remembered the papers; there was more.

A typed document, sterile, strange. A bank account waited for her, apparently; it was to be used to purchase tickets “upon the date specified, to the location specified.”

Specified by whom, Jaqen? She assumed so.  

She spun around, jumping, and fell to her couch, clutching the phone.

 

  
  


The middle of August.  Not too far off. She could do it. She felt more purpose than she had in quite some time.  She went into the bathroom, washed the Chicagoland Lake Michigan scent from her skin, taking her time. 

She showered for him; imagined him in front of her in the water, moved her fingers everywhere that he would. A show for him, whether or not he would see it.  She teased around her nipples, and washed herself with long slow movements, stroking down her legs. _ I know what you’ll see.  _ Clean, lotioned, shampooed and conditioned, shaved everywhere and scrubbed, she took herself into the bedroom, with the words from Jaqen running through her head on repeat. She reached for the toy she had bought herself as proxy for his fingers, thinking of him; she flicked it on, traced it around the edges of her lips and slowly, slowly moved it into herself, impossibly slick, feeling her mouth curve up into her lover-smile.

_ “A lovely girl dances in my thoughts.” _

  
  


 

Ramsay Bolton was sloppy.  He had unwittingly led Jaqen to his apartment, not once but twice; Jaqen watching him from several hundred feet the first time, and then up closer the second .  Jaqen was fast, quiet.  He watched and noted Ramsay’s habits, who was in the house and when, who he talked to.

Jaqen had already taken care of two of the men, mid-level recruiters. Jaqen figured getting them out of the way earlier would make his departure happen faster. He had, after all, left a message for a lovely girl telling her that he’d be done by mid-August.

_ It would not do to keep her waiting. _

 

The two recruiters were simple enough.  Jaqen noted their routines, saw that they would take the train back to their rat’s nest in  Józsefváros, and saw the blocks that they walked to get home.  He rode the train with them, changing his persona, dressed in the ubiquitous garb of a tee shirt and shorts, pretended like he was drunk.  Tourist, drunk, lost, friendly, smiling, touching them.  He sang to himself in German, made eyes at a woman on the train. He could see the disdain on their faces as he bumped into them, once and then again, apologizing sloppily.

The fat one was pricked, the smallest of needles, with a poison that would take him out within an hour; the thin man received a handful of poison on his skin in the guise of the rude, drunk tourist’s open drink splashing him in the face, transdermal delivery, absorbed by his skin, linger in his system, creating a mental haze for the week before death, leaving no trace.

He had still several left to go to eradicate that cell; there were at least three other players beside Ramsay, but they should not be hard, no harder than any others.

He knew that the Boltons were interested in destabilizing the region to make things easier for the drug trade of their master.  If it plunged the West into a position of defense against terrorism, the resources would be less to bear on the poppy fields. It would be forgotten, a secondary concern against the loss of so many soft targets.   Budapest was just a planning ground for them; the confusion they desired to sow lay in western Europe, the poppy fields in Afghanistan.

Ramsay Bolton had an apartment in central Budapest and a small house just outside the center of the city, where the great apartment buildings turned into small, nondescript houses with scrubby yards, graffiti on the fences. Whether it was his permanent house, or just a place to land for a bit, Jaqen did not know; he did know that Roose Bolton certainly did not have graffiti outside of his house.

Ramsay’s little house was intriguing to Jaqen.  _ What does a snake like that need a second house for?   _ Jaqen initially thought of a wife and shuddered on her behalf, but a few days of surveillance showed him that was not the case.  He asked his organization for intel on the address; a rental.  A deep barking noise; he would like to slip in and take a look around, but not this time.  Dogs as a rule did not bother him, normally, but these were two Cane Corsos, massive jowls, likely several hundred pounds each, and a man was cautious about keeping his limbs and body intact.

No one else came to the little house besides Ramsay, who was there a few days a week.  One day he brought one of his whores; the dogs growled and howled from inside the house, muffled; and the whore never came out again.

Jaqen, normally implacable, seethed as he saw Ramsay walk out after that incident; he could tell Ramsay’s steps were charged with pleasure, they sprang up from the ground like those of a happy man.  _  Dead man, _ thought Jaqen, surveying him coldly,  _ you walk very proudly for a man whose life deserves to be plucked off of this earth, whose life will end within days, hours; the more quickly it can happen, the better. _

_ The more quickly it will happen, the sooner a man will get his reward. _

  
  
  


Chicago was just as hot, just as crowded as ever. Arya’s apartment was baking.  _ A few days to get your shit in order. _  She set to work.

Talking to her professors seemed like the most pressing task.  She sent a round of apologetic emails.  “Taking a semester off” seemed reasonable enough.  She offered to meet with them, if they so desired, and if not, to accept her email as an apology.

She had held her breath that by giving them a gracious out she’d minimize contact. She’d save the shame and sadness of explaining herself.

She was wrong.

Her International Political Theory professor wrote back immediately.  An appointment was set.  Arya felt like she was walking to into the judge’s chambers later that afternoon.  Her favorite class, her favorite professor, the weakness of her answers, the indecision that had overruled any straight paths ahead for the past few months.

She grabbed her laptop, made her way back onto campus for the first time since April.

Dr. Forel was her favorite; his eyes crinkled when he spoke; he was tough but fair; her papers had come back riddled with comments.  He greeted her warmly across the desk. “Arya Stark. Where have you been?”  His question did not give her any wiggle room.

She chewed her lip. “Dr. Forel. I needed to stay at home, after the accident.”

“And now Ms. Stark decides to let her brains and her being forget what she wants?” He said, not unkindly.

“I plan on doing some traveling. I put down my books, in April honestly, and didn’t pick them back up. Papers unfinished on my laptop. Theories unraveled.  But I’ll be back. Chicago seems...like a cage right now.”

She lowered her eyes, deferent.  “What can I do to prepare while I am out?”

Dr. Forel wordlessly typed on his laptop and the next few minutes Arya squirmed, waiting. He pushed the return button with a little flourish. His eyes were kind.

“I’ve sent you a list of books and some challenges, some work to keep your brain sharp, your thinking swift, your reasoning even. Even in your travels, you must keep working, reading, thinking. If the work is worthy, consistent, exquisite - then, we can look at some credit for this next semester even as you traipse around - and even if not, you will keep your brain as sharp as a sword for your return.”

It was generous, and Arya reddened in her thanks, scraped her chair as she shook his hand to leave. He clasped his hands over hers and she could read the concern in his face as she left.  

She nearly ran down the hall, a window opening in her psyche, a piece of herself coming back.  _ Arya Stark. _

 

 

 

Back in her apartment, Arya opened her laptop, pulled up her  _ other _ lessons.

_ Ihtam lenafsik fa anta mohim bilnisbat le. _

_ Take care because you are important to me. _

She murmured it over and over, a chant, a prayer. Sent it out into the universe. Jaqen.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so so ready to get through Chicago. We have places to go!
> 
> serious gratitude to LadyGrey for indulging me. 1000 naked Tywins to her.


	9. the snake would suffer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another 'because I can't wait' unbeta'd chapter so all errors are alllllll mine
> 
> some graphic violence in this one.

Jaqen felt his blood rising, the low thrum of adrenaline heightening, as if a knob had been tweaked all the way up.  The hour was coming.

Four more he had dispatched that day, and Ramsay Bolton still slithered unaware of the deaths.  Jaqen knew that when word reached him that he would leave the nest, become unpredictable.  Jaqen did not want his mission elongated; he did not want to have to untangle the actions that Ramsay Bolton would take when he knew that his men had been picked off, one by one.

The time was upon him.

Jaqen took stock. His weapons were at hand; a small poison needle close to his fingertips, strapped to his wrist.  A smaller gun, a larger gun, several knives.  He was as armed as he ever was; he felt the constriction of kevlar over his chest.  It would not do to expose himself needlessly.  

Ramsay walked past the other nondescript houses, to his little house, slipped in the door. Jaqen could not see his face to read it, but did not see any change in his footsteps or in the way he grasped the gate into his garden.  

He was not aware, then, of what Jaqen had done with his associates.

Jaqen slipped behind him, in his yard, silently, obscured by some bushes. His quarry was less than ten feet away from him; a wall of stucco and stone separated them.  The dogs were distracted and had not heard him; they seemed to be locked out of the front room as their noises always emanated from the rear of the house.  Jaqen had quietly entered a few of the other houses on the block earlier in the week to see how they were laid out as the houses all seemed to be of uniform size and design. They all had the markings of being built at the same time.  He mapped out his escape routes, he noted who was home nearby and when.  Now in the bushes, he listened for the sound of Ramsay Bolton and for anyone else that might be with him.

It was quiet enough, but not too quiet. The dead man’s footsteps conveyed normalcy.

 

Jaqen struck.

He entered the house, saw the snake.  Ramsay saw him, too - his dead man eyes becoming more narrow, his cruel mouth twisting further into a sneer.  Jaqen saw rage, but fear.  Ramsay reached for his gun with one hand, made for the handle of the door with another.

In a split second Jaqen changed his mind on _how_ it would happen.   _Not_ clean, _not_ swift. The snake would suffer.  It was vengeance for the whores, vengeance for the cruelty. As Ramsay reached for him, Jaqen blocked him and twisted him to the ground in one fluid movement. Jaqen slashed Ramsay’s throat shallowly, reducing his angry howls to burbling.  He stabbed the arm that held the gun, kicked it away, and then ran his knife up his torso. Ramsay Bolton was on the floor, bleeding, wriggling and very much still alive.

Jaqen heard the dogs on the other side of the door, growling, terrible. He assessed his escape route; the window, the window would be the safest.

He opened the door separating the growling dogs and their bleeding master and flipped out the window to safety. Fangs caught on his leg. His own blood spilled. Just so.

Safely outside he watched as horror and fear spread over Ramsay Bolton’s face.   _Good_. He watched, ensconced in the bushes, as pain wracked Ramsay Bolton, as life left him. The dogs were frenzied by the blood and crunched bone. His flesh ripped off of his body in strips. Ramsay’s pathetic screams became smaller and smaller and diminished completely as one of the horrible dogs bit his throat.

Ramsay Bolton was nothing, he was no one.  Ramsay Bolton was dead.

Jaqen took a quick picture to confirm, tapped a message out. He waited for a few minutes, settling himself, smoothing his hair down.  He willed his breathing to normalcy. He exhaled the death, meditated for a few moments, centering himself.

Jaqen walked slowly up the street, back towards the center of Budapest.  His steps measured at first, growing more urgent as he approached his safe house.  

Ramsay Bolton was dead, the father and son could do no more.  The job was untraceable - the dogs would massacre Bolton’s body beyond autopsy.  The vengeance was deserved.  If only Ramsay Bolton could die over and over at the teeth of his horrible dogs, at the sure, swift slash of Jaqen’s knife. Jaqen would gladly spill his blood as many times as he was able to.  

Jaqen’s heart rose into his throat; his blood flowed through his body; he felt himself begin to throb.

_His reward, then._

 

In his apartment, Jaqen stood under the shower, washing away the blood that remained on him, allowing the water to clean him to his pores.  He stood as if the shower was an ablution, a baptism.  He bent down, methodically washing and rewashing himself; feet, ankles, legs, his testicles, up his sides, arms, fingers, neck, face, hair, letting the water hit his eyes and run down his face. He moved so that the water rained down from the top of his head, and imagined it washing out his soul, leaving him blank, radiant, clean, a vessel.

This was his ritual after every duty finished; the real blood gone, he could walk cleanly out into the world, untainted by the horror wrought by those he killed, by himself. The deaths were a small offering of peace he held up for the world.

Clean, calm.  It was time to go. He was not worried that anything would befall him. The little snakes that were left in Budapest were too small to become consequential and they would wriggle out of the nest and be lost.  He dressed, a business man this time, and packed most of his weaponry into a briefcase; a smaller pouch held his laptops and phones.  His clothes in a larger, rolling bag.  He brushed his hair carefully.  Chose a tie, not too nice, he made sure that his suit was appropriately downtrodden.  He was just a harried, mid-level businessman, trying to get ahead in the world, worrying about his fortune, nondescript ethnicity, the beginnings of a beard shaved off, clean.

The businessman, the fluctuations of the markets wearing on his face, took his effects, carefully wiped his fingerprints from hard surfaces around the apartment, said a prayer of thanks for the safety that it had afforded him,  and went to the train station.  

Vanished.

 

 

Jaqen had killed eighty-three men.  Eighty three lives taken over the past ten years.  Eighty-three black souls.  Eighty-three who wished to take thousands of other lives.  

He was the best at his job.

There were others, like him; his order included a few other elite assassins. Several helpers, handling logistics, transportation, accommodations.  Intelligence sources.  A shadowy network of places and people.  A leader that was strangely amorphous, hard to retain his features from meeting to meeting.  No centralized location to physically report into; governments sent word via a chain of whispers; spiders silently shaping the fate of the world.

Jaqen had duties, directions, but at this point he also had autonomy.  A few times since he had started these duties he paused his work - burying his mother paused him for months, knocking him off balance.  When he returned to his duties it was with a redoubled focus searing through his being, propelling him to move faster, more efficiently.

His entry into this world happened when he was barely older than Arya, accidentally, or pushed by fate he could not divine.  He had been in Turkey, visiting his mother after university, spending time in Istanbul.  Walking the city, he came down an alley, upon a group young Kurdish girls, children, most under 10, corralled by three young thugs.  Trafficked.  Their faces haunted him.

He hung back, watched the men, noted where the girls were kept.  That evening he came back and murdered the three men, giving the girls the British pounds he had on him as the shock cleared from their eyes, realizing their torturers were dead. They had escaped unscathed, relatively. It was too late for a few, and he kept their blank eyes as they gingerly walked to safety, the bloodstains down their legs, in his mind as a talisman driving him forward.  

Slipping out afterward, he nearly slashed the man who put his hand on his shoulder, but that man was quicker than he, Somali, and had no animosity towards Jaqen. The man had restrained him but was not violent towards him.  His tone was almost... congratulatory. The man exchanged Jaqen’s blood soaked tunic for another one, and he and Jaqen walked the docks and talked in fitful bursts when the crowds lulled around them.  Within a month, Jaqen was sitting in a room in Paris, talking with three men; the Somali, an American, and a Turk. He embarked on his first mission with the American a few days later, and they brought down a small network of men affiliated with Khadaffi, again involved in trafficking.

From there Jaqen was in, root to stem; he thrilled quietly on his missions, trained vigorously, studied language and customs as some sort of helpful, macabre, anthropology.  As his order became larger, moving from serving as some sort of avenger to aligning with governments when their cause was worthy, he dove in as often as he could, the largest body count of his group; a sort of elder even as he had yet to pass the age of 35.

Most of his time was spent on his missions; they could take months, but this particular one had been pleasingly quick because of the intelligence they had gained from the death of the father, of Roose Bolton.

Each killing brought Jaqen enough money to escape completely this new life, yet each time he merely redoubled his efforts.  Blood - spilling bad blood - became an addiction.

In between missions, it was customary to go and cleanse themselves, to reflect, to absorb safety and reinvigorate in a safe house, usually half a world away from where they had spilled blood.  It was not forbidden to take a lover; in fact sometimes encouraged when information or proximity was positively impacted.  And Jaqen had; the dark, exotic face of the woman in Algeria, her voice deep and low; the German woman, soft-spoken and beautiful like a goddess; the woman from Malta, eager yet innocent, having never seen outside her island. Others, less remarkable.

He had never extended the relationship beyond the boundaries of his _...engagements.._ .however, and would have never thought to open his true mission up for them, up to their judgment, and especially not _after a week,_ less even. _Terrifying._  Arya had infiltrated him; and beyond his understanding, as he moved and thought like a man not completely in control of his sensibilities, his tongue. The combination of fierceness and vulnerability was intoxicating to him, more vivid than any of his other encounters, more distracting.  

The fact, immutable in his mind, however, was that it had yet to stand up against time and distance and strangeness, and he turned their whole encounter over in his mind’s eye.  They weren’t ready and yet still he thrust it on himself, made the whole thing happen.  An interesting test. A test, of which the results were not known yet.  

What if they passed.  What if they failed.  What happened next, in either scenario.

He did not know the answer.  On the train, a businessman, harried, slightly arrogant, pulled out a cell phone and and tapped out a message. _.to his office_ , and a second, and a third.

The arrangements were being made, and at the terminus of the train the businessman strode outside of the airport, greeting a young man who took his briefcase from him.  Unencumbered, the businessman put his passport, wallet and cell phone into his pocket, strode into the ticketing agency, and embarked out of Budapest, to the West.

  


One last piece of business, one that Arya was more than happy to have Sansa's help with.

The lobby was strange, big, soft cushions and a some gaudy artwork, the lampshades giving off a half light not well suited to an office.  Arya fiddled with her skirt nervously; Sansa had taken one look at her jeans and turned her around in the house, changed her into “something a little smarter.”

They were just going to see FUCKING PETYR BAELISH, and the only pleasure Arya took in the meeting was the ability to say that name in her head.  She hated him; he was softly, manipulatively dangerous and Arya bristled that he had access to her family’s inner workings.

They were shown in by a buxom receptionist, wearing something that was sized too small, pulled too tight, cheap scent trailing her like a scarf.  Sansa smiled, Arya glowered.  

 _Let’s get this over with,_ she thought.

Littlefinger stood up behind his desk, practically drooling over Sansa.  She smiled, and made sure that he got an eyeful of her wedding ring when he kissed her hand.  Willas Tyrell had adorned his little bird; and Sansa wore it all with the confidence of a woman who got what she wanted.

Even though Arya was Littlefinger’s least favorite Stark woman, she still felt his mouth linger for too long on her hands.  She scraped his touch off her hands with her fingernails, out of his sight, when they sat down.

“Beautiful Stark ladies.  You grow more radiant every year.  I’m so sorry that it has taken such a tragic loss to bring you here, but you are indeed something special to see.”

Arya cleared her throat.

“Pet - Mr. Baelish, we need to understand where the Stark family finances are at; we need to make sure that nothing falls off the table.”

“Arya, my dear, I’m glad to know that you are curious” -- _like a child, she knew his word choice was intentional,_ her eyebrow raised at this -- “about your family’s finances.”

Sansa gripped Arya’s hand under the table and willed her to control the temper visibly flashing in Arya’s eyes.

“Mr. Baelish! It’s been too long.” Courtesy. Sansa poured it on. “Mr. Baelish, our most immediate need is an assessment of the overall health of the estate. We’ll also need recommendations on any businesses that are ongoing.  This was...unexpected... and we don’t know entirely where our father kept his resources.”

Arya let Sansa handle it at that moment, and listened detached as the earthly toil from generations of her family was reduced to a list of assets in Petyr Baelish’s mouth.

 _There._ Done, for now at least. The Starks were very well off.  They transferred a few of Ned’s more conservative assets into higher performing portfolios, ensured that all bills were handled, taxes settled, a quick accounting of properties, businesses.

“There is...one more thing.”  Baelish could barely hide the feathers sticking out of his mouth.

Arya slowly thought of different ways to kill him. She hated him, hated him.  

“Your father didn’t seem too inclined to share this, either with me _or_ with Catelyn.”

The girls stared.

“But as his advisor, I ultimately convinced him to entrust me with all matters of his estate.”

“It appears, dear girls, that your parents, your father, had lent a substantial amount of money several years back, several million dollars, and on my urging, he had started taking steps to get reimbursed.  Papers had been drawn up; we anticipated a messy legal battle.  I assume that you’d like me to continue that battle.”

Sansa and Arya both stunned into silence.  The Starks had been well off, and even now Petyr Baelish’s revelations showed that they had around fifteen million in liquid assets, more than that in stocks, a few million in land; more than they’d ever need.  The Starks had not been ostentatious, stayed mostly in their northern home where anyone, really, could buy a lot of land.  But who would Ned lend money to?  And why that much?

Sansa found her voice first.  “We’ll need the papers for this, of course - who in the world had our father lent that kind of money to?”  

Baelish’s voice dripped, saccharine. “Robert Baratheon, sweetest Sansa.”  

 

Arya couldn’t wait to be alone, process in her own way.  Sansa wanted to talk this through, and she was shocked, _yes shocked_...and Arya just wanted to sit and think, curl up into a ball and muddle through.  That was not the revelation she had wanted to hear. Her father was faceted beyond her understanding, and she desperately wished to un-know all of this, to be able to keep her childish hero-worship intact without the taint...of what...of blood? Of money?

 

Finally. Home. She locked the door behind her, stood up against it for a moment, walked to her desk to pick up a textbook, to fill her head with something else.

And saw that there was a message, waiting for her, on the _other_ phone.

“A duty is done, and a man’s time is his own - to share with a lovely girl, should she wish it. Chicago to Heathrow.  The ticket waits for you. If you are able to join me.”

She listened to his voice, silken, give the airline - the lilt, the emphasis on the sensual sounds - and then listened to the message again.  And again.  Her blood flowed, everywhere; she felt her skin plump up, her legs and arms tingle, and her vision sharpened.  She was aware of her breath, of the feel of her hair swishing against her back, the soft rush of blood in her ears.

She became...more.

With a delicious shiver, she sat down, and listened to his message, again and again.

 

 

Arya packed, first making a messy pile on her bed, nervously sorting through clothes, chewing her lip.  She wanted to run to the airport, damn all of this, she would wait until the plane came if she had to sleep the night through on one of the airport benches if she had to.  FUCK.

 _Think._ She had to pack. But for what, for where. And for who - Jaqen deliciously unknown to her. She was horrible with clothes, and usually that didn’t bother her, but now she felt the stirrings of insecurity.  What if she got out there...and what, she sharply caught herself, _and what, he didn’t like your shirt? Please..._  She shook her head. _Stupid._  She packed, efficiently now: done.

 

_Done and ready to go…_

_Almost._ She made a phone call.  She wanted to check in with Jory, see if he could be her eyes on the ground.  She remembered the diving operation in Munising, gave him their name, a directive. _This is for you, Bran, she thought._

 

She figured it would be easier to ask forgiveness than permission, at least with Sansa, and ignored her texts until the next morning. As she got into a cab, she sent her a message.

_Sansa. I have to get out of town for a while. Too much. I’m heading to London, for a bit.  Call you later, promise._

She turned her phone off, denying herself the possibility of answering Sansa until she had something more concrete to give. The _other_ phone was safely in her bag.

 

Arya could not really sleep on a plane normally; on this trip she fidgeted, willed herself to read, zoned out in the movie as it played to lessen the time it took to go over the Atlantic. As the flight waned, her adrenaline did as well and she napped, lightly, for the last few hours.  The voice over the loudspeaker woke her up.  They were almost there.

Grabbing her bag, she exited the plane.  The sheer ridiculousness of her situation hit her: now what?  She stood outside the secure area of the airport, watching people reunite, straining to see if Jaqen would meet her.

“Arya Stark.”  She whirled. It wasn’t Jaqen; it was another man, tall and thin, dressed in the ubiquitous button down and jeans you’d see on any tech worker, on any college student.  Arya didn’t  get a chance to say anything to him - wasn’t sure who he was, didn’t get a feeling to trust or distrust him. The strangeness of her name spoken aloud by a stranger, half a world away was disquieting, but even moreso when he merely handed her an envelope and turned and vanished into the throng of travelers. She was too shocked to say anything.

She walked to a bench outside, lit a cigarette. Opened the envelope, hands shaking.

A new passport; her face, a new name.   _Mercy._ Mercy Sloane. American.  Mercy had been to London, but her passport was devoid of other stamps.

Tickets. _Tangiers. Morocco._

A girl strode to the proper gate.   _A girl was ready._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're off!! 
> 
> a little Jaqen backstory for you in this one. In a modern AU...needed to find a way to allow him to be an agent of death. I do realize that he's not benevolent in canon - the gift is given, death is not just. That said...in a modern AU...well, this is how I envisioned the whole damned thing. 
> 
> And a delicious death. For the dogs, that is...
> 
> hope you like it! 
> 
> thanks for all the comments, subscriptions, kudos - even you lurkers, thanks : ); the fact that people are reading makes me want to push it out faster.


	10. the blinding white afternoon of Tangier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and we find ourselves in Morocco

Mercy stepped off the plane.  Mercy stepped into customs, filled out her forms. Mercy took a look at the harsh light of late afternoon, felt the dry air, this strange other planet.  Mercy walked out of the airport.

 

_And into the arms of her lover._

 

Jaqen stood waiting; she saw his form draped against the wall of the airport.  Saw him move in slow motion with the grace of an animal.  Saw him as he closed the distance between them.  And felt him, solidly him, really truly him, as he brought her into an embrace, arms hard around her, kissing the top of her head as she clung to him.

Her breath hitched, and she melted up against him. He tilted her chin up, and his smile radiated through his eyes; _his eyes!_  He moved her delicately, like a dance partner, although his grip on her was iron.

“Arya. _Arya Stark_.”  His voice was just above a whisper. “A man is pleased - beyond words - that our paths intersect.”  She met his eyes, a strange light in them that she tried to divine: tenderness, desire, curiosity, protectiveness - and a little barrier, keeping them separated by a heartbeat.

The surreal feeling faded into triumph - he was _here_ , and he was _real,_ and for now he was _hers_ , and she would do to him what she had secreted away in the night, alone.  She reached for a kiss, radiant with victory - but he motioned to the crowd.

“Lovely girl. Welcome to Morocco.”  He curved into a smile, and she washed in the smallest frisson of disappointment... and a bit of humor... _of course_ he had brought her to a place where she would have to restrain herself.

“Are your _duties_ done?” she trilled, mocking him, straightening herself up. She could hold back, for now. It was satisfying to see Jaqen’s eyes as she maintained her control - perhaps the first time he’d seen it.  She suppressed the slight warm shudder that emanated from her spine, squeezed her thighs together to keep the delicious feeling inside of her. “Or did you leave something undone, so that you have to wait for your reward?”

He held her eyes, and his grin tipped up, catlike, the smile stretching his lips, his teeth visible under his lips. A whisper.

“ _Something_ will be undone.”  

They walked, slightly stiff legged, out of the airport.

He ushered her into a taxi, into the blinding white afternoon of Tangier.

She had too many questions, too much on her mind to start talking in the cab; she didn’t want to start, didn’t want to talk to him in pleasantries when there was _everything_ to tell him. His fingers found her hand and wound into it completely.  She busied herself in the strange universe outside the window.  It was like nothing she had ever seen. It was fascinating.

 

Jaqen’s ability to be silent but maintain comfort was like a blanket; she wrapped herself in it. The small touch, the heat of his hand: it was enough. _It was everything._

 

The cab drove deeper into the city, weaving through the streets. Jaqen directed the cab driver in Arabic. Arya’s brief practice of Arabic felt pathetic; she understood nothing. The streets flashed by, dizzyingly beautiful: women covered in saffron and orange; geometric patterns of tile repeating infinitely across buildings and sidewalks; merchants on the street with their wares; bright blue dominating her view, accenting the ornately detailed buildings that looked like they were as old as time.

The cab entered the old walls of the city through a keyhole shaped gate that looked like it had stood there for millennium. The medina. The road became impossibly narrow; suddenly the cab stopped at Jaqen’s command, and after he paid, he pulled her bags out and with a little dip of his head, motioned for her to follow him.

Arya had felt that at any moment he would vanish. She’d wake up and see the walls of her apartment in Chicago. She’d look around and see the solid steel supports of the L instead of these foreign buildings.  As they stepped out onto the street and the sounds of the strange language, the smell of the city, the looks of the citizens reached her, reality set in: _she was here._ She fairly bounded alongside him as they navigated the street, eyes opened wide, determined to absorb everything around her. She felt her face grinning as each footstep gave her something new to process.

They turned down an alley into a shaded courtyard that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Jaqen led her up a set of stairs, narrow, winding up a stucco wall with a curling iron railing on one side.  He slid a key into an ornate, dazzlingly cobalt blue door at the very top of the stairs.

The door opened, and Arya felt her feet move underneath her, her world shift slightly as she stepped into the room.  The sun gleamed off the tile floor, it was foreign and strange and beautiful.

She exhaled.

“Jaqen. Jaqen. I can’t even...I missed you so much. You’re actually real.”  She reached up to him and touched his face as if to reassure herself that it was actually made of flesh and bone.

“As is a girl.”  His words were soft. The look on his face was achingly tender, the entirety of his corporeal form infinitely more pleasing than the shape he’d taken in her imagination.

_This stranger!_

“ _Most_ real. _Most_ beautiful. My most captivating girl…” his voice trailed off and he reached down to to her face.  His kiss, oh his kiss...the feeling of his lips covering hers, they were soft and his tongue slid gently between her lips, teasing her own tongue, tasting her and becoming stronger, harsher, insistent.  Oh she had waited, waited...

_Most real indeed._

Jaqen slowed, slowed his kisses and finally broke away from her.

“A man wondered if a girl would melt if he brought her here, perhaps the water would be too warm for her. He wanted to see what would happen, away from the ice.” Oh that humor, his voice that held so many secrets, oh the sound of him vibrating through her, those lips that held every pleasure she could possibly want...   _Everything about that mouth is so so good._  “Arya, we have the whole of Europe, of Africa and the Middle East at our fingertips.  Whatever a girl wants. Anything, everything. Just say the name, and we’ll be there.”

Arya looked at him, opening like a flower.  

“The name I want is Jaqen H’ghar.”

 

That was enough.

 

For the tiniest of moments they stood forehead to forehead, their breath as one, lacing around them. Arya felt little sparks move through her, tingling, as she took in the sight of him. It was too much and she bit her lower lip to stay the feeling.  

The small movement of her mouth was inflammatory. He moved quickly, fiercely and picked her up, reaching one hand under her buttocks and crushing her with his other arm, locking his fingers in her hair.  She wrapped her legs as tightly as she could, grinding against him until her back bumped up against a wall, pressing against him, seeking his mouth.

Arya pushed her legs down to the floor, feeling his hardness as she pressed herself down. _GOD._ She kept her tongue against his until she could no longer and broke from him to free herself from her clothes, loath to break their contact, hissing with anger even though she had initiated the break.  She struggled with her shirt, impatient, her hands better suited to the tasks that they had just been rudely interrupted from.

She felt insane, consumed, singularly driven towards one desire.

 

Jaqen stood back, appraising her wildness as he willed himself into control.   _This is a test, a test_ his rational mind said, _this is a test for her, for me,_ and he watched her finish disrobing, looking her long pale legs as they appeared from pants that had hidden them, a flash of blue silk covering her, her waist as it nipped in and up in a clean line, the curve of her breasts as they escaped their constraints and lushly emerged towards him, the softest most pleasurable feeling to hold them…

_This is a test  stay in control  a test a test_

He abandoned his rational mind, abandoned any pretense at rational thought as he felt her hands slide down his pants and undo them, releasing him in one movement, her face flashing with greed as his cock jutted out towards her.

They stood naked, in front of each other, greedily looking up and down at their prizes.

 

She struck.

 

She pushed him down, onto the cold tile floor (it was one of the strangely rational thoughts she flashed on, _the beautiful floor, strangely cold in that hot place, that hot land)_ and climbed over him.  She could not touch him enough and dragged herself along him, making sure not to let his  cock enter her - that would happen soon enough.  She ground against the hard planes of his chest and watched him watch her. _I know what you see._  The delightful confluence of his chest and the line of his neck and strong arms, that mouth so close, and finally she had to rock back and with knees on the cold tile floor she had his erection in front of her.  She held the thick base of him, tangled her fingers into the coarse hairs, kissed him gently and then opened her mouth to take him deeply; _oh why hello_ and sucked it, a kiss as if in greeting and then moved her tongue up his flat stomach to his chest, his mouth, his cheekbones, kissing under his jaw and back down to the line of golden hairs that led her to her pleasure.

  
He shuddered, his nerves disobeying him, twitching; a finger, the muscles in his core, an ankle. All the while watching her, transfixed.

She sucked him again, _that taste,_ slowly, staring at him, _fucking marvelous_ and sat up, releasing him from her mouth to feel the thud against her stomach.  And for one moment achingly away from his touch before she pulled him against her and then rocked the head against her clit, lush,  before she arched her back and slid down on him, taking him in one motion until she could move down no further, raising her arms over her head so that the feeling could move all the way through her, unencumbered.

Jaqen watched her impale herself on him and groaned at the sight, buried completely within her, and she started to rock and pull him in against her. Slowly she moved her hips, and torturously started circling, trapping him as deeply as she could inside of her, keeping her head up so that she could watch him. Her cunt was sopping, sopping wet - god, the feeling of him, the sight, all of it.

It was exquisite.

She felt him lunge to meet her, but she pushed him down and rested both hands on his chest.  She wanted to control this, this moment.  She moved forward to pull him almost out of her until she felt the head of his cock emerge from her and then quickly took him back in, and up again until she could no longer control her movements.

Jaqen was groaning, gasping and she could not stop herself, she felt his hands on her hips, pulling her to him, she would escape and he would catch her and slam her body down, more roughly, a game of need.  It..was..too..much and she heard her own voice, like it was someone else’s, and her cry was guttural, and she opened completely and closed like a lock on him, and came came came, and felt his hips bucks as he throbbed his release into her, a hot explosion into her core.

 

 

They lie entwined, limbs tangled, watching as the light ebbed through the ornate windows, chests moving as they breathed as one.

Silence. Silent like a womb. She could hear noises, feel, but she was encased. It was a supreme feeling of comfort.

She rolled over. Traced his cheek. Broke the silence. “I think, think that I missed you.  God, so much. You’re really done for now?”

He smiled and kissed her.  “For now, lovely girl, and hopefully for quite a bit longer.  You were missed as well. Yes, I am done for now. A man has said.”

  


There was a lot that he wasn’t telling her and they both knew it. She seemed to let him slide at the moment with what he realized were some _monumental_ secrets.

This was part of what drove him to her, her weird acceptance of his.. _.eccentricities._ Her edges were sharper; she was less tolerant than he was. But she was also quite.. _.pliable_ in unexpected places.

He smirked at his little internal snipe. _A man is now filthy! She makes him so!_

He watched her internalize their current situation, assess it, a small sad smile as she thought of god knows what.  She rolled over.

Eyes wide open, those clear gray eyes, iron, staring at him.

“What do you mean, we can go anywhere? Why are we here?” She pulled herself up, realized that they were on the ground. She moved onto the couch and tugged his arm.

“Jaqen. What can we do here?”

He grinned. A bit.  “There is the Medina, Marrakesh, Essaouria, Tunisia, Spain - lovely girl, anywhere.”

Arya frowned.  “But are we safe?”

“We are never safe, Ayra.”  

He tempered himself. Let her in. Just a little.

“We are here for a few reasons. A man has said, he wanted to see if the warm water would also allow a girl to float like a leaf.  There have also been some rumblings, for me; I would take you to the Far East, to South America, but if something happens, well, we must be ready.”

“My duty is finished, darling girl, and in some ways I was able to stop time, to take what I needed. Can a girl walk down the street and shout her name - or mine?  No. And time may not stop for too long, whether or not I wish to be interrupted. But now that I am finished, the constraints loosen a bit.”

Lovely girl, generous, needed more, he could see her decide to put it away for later.   Get her most immediate need.

“Suppose I don’t need to shout my name. But I do need to reach out to my family, let them know I’m safe. I didn’t say...anything, really, about you.” She murmured.

“What could I tell them?” She laughed sharply. “ _‘He is wonderful, likes animals, has a small mole on the inside of his thigh.._ ’ I don’t need to say too much, but if I don’t let them know that I’m alive, they’ll send a search team out for me, and they’ll shout my name loudly enough so that we _all_ hear it.”

Jaqen murmured into her chest.  “Of course. Talk to your family. Tell them you are on holidays, chasing the sun. Or reflecting it back to itself.”  His fingers, gold on her white arms. He wondered, disconnected, wondered if she would burn, wondered if she would melt.

“Jaqen, I need to talk to you about my dad. Not now, maybe, but some strange things have come up.  Honestly, hard to process. We need to talk about it, but later.”

He heard the edge of ‘later’ in her voice, raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Later, then.”

“Yes, later.” A little bit of temper flashed in her voice, just a touch of heat. “I’m here, right? I made this trip, to see a strange man, get on a plane and go somewhere...when I had no idea where I’d end up.  That’s a lot of trust. I would feel really stupid, to see this”- she waved her hands - “ _This_ , to see _me_ running to you like a stupid girl, not knowing really anything about you.”

“So, let’s take _this_ and enjoy it. But I can’t give you all that’s in my head, Jaqen. I...I need to know what you’ll use it for.”

He nodded, understood. He did not feel chastised. It was a monumental act of trust for her to walk into the post office, after knowing what he did, much less walk onto an airplane, fly over an ocean. _Her trust._ Most precious. It took bravery - and some small ability to disregard common sense.

He knew he owed something for that trust.

“Would a lovely girl like to hear - just a bit - about what a man has been up to?”

Relief, a little, on her face, that he would share.

He picked his words carefully.

“There were two men on this earth who had hoped to inspire chaos, bombings, murder. A father and a son. An old snake, and a young one.”

He swallowed. This was... _unprecedented_..payback for her bravery.

“Both of them were guilty. Both of them had shed much blood and would shed more if they were not stopped. They served one who wished to sell heroin across the world, to control its trade and production.  Keeping the government confused, off their track. Creating chaos.  They handled their production by keeping the people in Afghanistan scared and docile. Not in service to their government, but to the others who would keep the wheel turning.  Terror to keep innocents compliant.”  He sighed.

“I had to take them off.” A strange word choice.  

“You killed them.”

“Yes, lovely girl. And the men they were with.”

He bowed his head, wondered if her judgment would kick in, send her running from him.

“And you don’t care. Their guilt is enough to allow you to just kill them. You’re a murderer.” Her voice was monotone.

“Yes, lovely girl.”

He sighed, best to do this now. The word murderer had not come out of her mouth with any particular taste on it - but he knew it could spoil, and quickly.

“A man does not care.  All men must die. And these two, they were horrible, they were senseless, their cruelty knew no bounds.  Their deaths, and the others, meant nothing to me. I could do it again and again; they were not human, or perhaps I am not. They had no humanity - and if I had to take them one by one, with my own hands, I would do it again without question, without a twitch of conscience. I do not care about their lives, about their hopes and dreams.  I watched the life drain out of them, and it gave me purpose. They are nothing now, no one.”

He put up a small shield, a coldness, arrogance. A bit of bloodlust, as well.  If she would go, then let her go now before he was even more impossibly entangled, more out of his head, before he gave up any more of his secrets.

He waited for something to flash across her face, to see if her instinct told her to leave, to go. _It did not._  She said nothing else, gave him a half smile as if in gratitude for his honesty, and stretched herself in front of him, arching her back.

“We live in a strange, strange world, Jaqen H’ghar, where a man can sit and tell a girl how much he enjoys ripping other men to _pieces_ , and all she can think of is what he plans on feeding her.”

Her smile reached her eyes and warmed them from cold hard steel to something organic, alive; she reached a willowy white arm towards him, a tendril curling around his neck, and kissed him with that problem of a mouth, as wet and sweet as it had been in his visions.  

The relief broke his shield and with it, his desire surged and became impossible to ignore.

“A girl, such a hungry girl, always…perhaps a man is hungry, now.” He took her on the couch and slid his tongue around her swollen clit, tracing down _under it_ as if under it to push at the nerves at her very center, his lips sealing around her bud, and sucking as if he could not get enough, his fingers in the soft creamy skin of her thighs, stroking them as he watched her twitch under his tongue. And when he felt she could not stand it any longer, he slid his cock deliberately into the impossible slickness, slowly taking her again, watching, her head thrown back and her body moving at his every thrust, every movement balanced on the edge of the universe, languidly fucking her, so so good, impossibly so: their urgency muted and a flower of tenderness growing between them as they came together, again.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here they are, back together. How was it? 
> 
> once again big ups to LadyGrey, and this time may she only get one Tywin, but armed with meds, tea, and a crop.
> 
>  
> 
> [aural representation of chap](https://youtu.be/sRbKzumSPVw)


	11. a cobra’s fang

Morocco was unlike anything that she had ever, ever seen before.

 

The permanence of the structure of the medina was intimidating. _How many humans had taken shelter within these walls._  Arya marveled at how achingly beautiful it was. The patterns were everywhere, gorgeous.  Humanity flooding the streets, intricate pottery, metal and fabrics; men, standing and talking, occasionally looking at her with bold, hard eyes. Jaqen did not touch her as they made their way up the streets, but his presence was palpable and Arya noticed him stiffen, almost imperceptibly, whenever he sensed the slightest bit of challenge to her.

They walked along the walls of the old city into a plaza that opened up like a long-held secret whispered in her ear.  Arya sucked her breath in.  It was beautiful.

Her excitement mounted.

“Jaqen, what can we do here?  I want to see it.   _All of it._ ”  They had stopped at a souk, Arya resisted the urge to finger the cloth. She purchased a caftan and a scarf, Jaqen pulling out some dirham to pay, completing the transaction in Arabic.  She flashed a smile: _thank you_.

“A man has made arrangements, for the next days, but perhaps we can plan something else together, after.”

_Comfort._

She felt exhilarated - _Tangier!_ \- as they walked out into the evening, under the desert sky, and Jaqen led her up another narrow staircase so they stood near the top of the wall, the city spilling out underneath them, waves crashing in the Mediterranean below.  Privately, secretly, she reached for him; there was no one around.  She kissed him, eyes open, and they stared momentarily at each other.

_Home._

 

The next morning Arya awoke first, untangled herself from Jaqen’s embrace.  She showered, put on her new caftan: _there, no one could possibly know I’m not from here,_ she giggled _, blinding white skin and gray eyes._

She snuck back into the bedroom, gazed fondly at Jaqen as he slept; his mouth was slightly open, little sleep noises making her feel more tender.   _Shake it off, Sansa,_ she teased herself….and then the thought hit her.  Sansa. Jon. Fuck.

She pulled out her phone for the first time since arriving, ignoring the messages for now. She checked the time in Chicago; 2 a.m.  Okay, _not good to call Sansa_ ; this was delicate enough as is.

Sansa...seven messages.   _Only seven? She’s slipping!_

She dismissed it. She’d reply...later.

Nothing from Jon.

Another thing to worry about...later.

She curled up on the couch and stared out the windows, willing herself to stay silent and let Jaqen sleep.  She loved his face as it was resting, always handsome but in sleep he lost the sardonic suggestiveness that seemed to accent his every word, every look.  

The sea was calling to her, so delightfully turquoise in the heat, visible over rooftops from the window.  She needed to untangle what it meant to be here, as a woman, and a western woman at that. _Could she even swim at the beach?_  Her complete and utter lack of understanding of the cultural norms was an embarrassment to her, and she picked up her laptop to see if she could educate herself, just a bit, while she waited for Jaqen.

_He can sleep like the dead, how can he sleep when we’re here, we’re here, we’re here??!_

She couldn’t stop herself, her feet carried her forward and she ran down the hall, jumped across the room and flew through the air to surprise him in the bed.

She saw him move - a cobra strike - when she was midair. He was a blur as he rolled out of the bed, grabbed the knife on his nightstand and moved into defensive stance on the floor, all in one fluid motion. Her jump, meant to land on him, merely hit the empty bed. His eyes widened as he saw her, became aware of what was happening. The knife glinted in the morning sun - a cobra’s fang - dangerously close to her. If he hadn’t realized who she was in time, he could have _killed_ her.

 

It was terrifying.

 

The cold, dangerous planes of his face melted from animal-instinct to aware, contrite, horrified.

She stared silently at him, wide eyed.  Delicately, slowly, he pulled her so she was sitting on the edge of the bed, as he knelt on the floor beneath her and buried his head on her knees.

When he looked up into her eyes, he kissed her knees and bowed his head.

His voice shook.

“Beautiful girl. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.  I was in the dead of sleep.”

He bowed before her, supplicant, and kissed her hands gently while the the room slowed its spinning, while the world righted itself. When he got up, it was gentle, slow, as if she was a wild animal he did not wish to scare.  He slid onto the bed and pulled her to his side, clutching her.

Her words wobbled out of her mouth, only pushed far enough to float around her face. Small, weak. “Maybe not the best idea to try to sneak up on you.”

His reality, his job, his very _self_ became real to her again. Terrifyingly real.

She wanted to ask him how he killed, what he had to do. She thought of his eyes; they were huge, almost too big for his face - thought how they would look enraged, murderous, the skin tight around them.

She couldn’t, didn’t; she did not want to know at that moment. It was too terrible.

Instead, she asked what she _did_ want to know.

“Jaqen, do you think my father was killed?”

 

 

This was a question that Jaqen did not expect.  She saw that he was surprised. She believed it. She told him about Bran’s dream. It was just a dream, of course...but Bran was always so serious, level-headed. Strange of him to put so much emphasis on it.

“A girl has sent people to dive, to look?” Jaqen arched an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what they’ll find. There are tons of shipwrecks along that coast. It’s really dangerous. They could end up with something else, or they could find nothing. They made a recovery search right afterwards, but it was early in the season.  Probably will find nothing.  But I wanted to do it for Bran, make sure that he knew that I heard him, that I believed him.”

She murmured. “And it was stuck in my head, him saying that, over and over. There’s other stuff, too.”  She picked up the knife and touched it absently, mesmerized by the carvings on the hilt.

She told him about Ned’s moneylending, about Robert Baratheon and the lawsuit.

She didn’t know if these things fit together but certainly none of them fit with the image of her father that she kept tucked in her brain. It was unsettling to have to juxtapose this _other_ Ned with her father, solid, steady, honorable.

When she spoke of Robert Baratheon, she saw Jaqen’s forehead crease.

“A man knows this name, Robert Baratheon - knows of his family, knows of his wife.”

“ _Knows this name?_  What does that mean?” Arya startled.

“They are known to us. We keep watch on them.”

“Jaqen.   _What does that mean._ ”  Her voice hissed.

He sighed. “Arya. A man will find out for you what there might be to know.  They are only recently under watch for us, and a man only started to untangle this thread.” A smirk splayed out on his face, slowly. “Does a girl want to try to find out, tonight?”

He became _excited_. Arya sat up, because Jaqen was the most calm person she knew; this reaction was magnetic to her.  A bell was rung, a whistle blown, and his whole visage changed.

“Arya. I want to take you out tonight, but you must not be so...much like Arya Stark when we go. Although Arya is exquisite. Even as she right now wishes to cut a man. And we will perhaps learn a bit about Mr. Robert Baratheon, if we are careful.” He smirked.

 _“Now hand me the knife.”_ He continued. “Besides, a girl must see the city today - today it is ours.”

They broke their fast on bread, goat cheese, fruit, honey.  Coffee, strong.  Arya sat in the small courtyard that was theirs, smoked, drank her coffee. She could feel the strangeness of the morning falling off of her, and by the time Jaqen pulled her out of the house, swimsuit in her bag, a scarf over her head, it was gone. Bouncing on her toes.

They were staying in the Medina, walled in, very traditional, and they walked through looking at the souks. They kept walking, Arya turning them down smaller and quieter streets, until they found themselves quite lost. A mint tea. A quick turn in the shops, Arya picking up a dress for the not-Arya Stark to wear tonight.

They were going to infiltrate, see what they could hear in a snake den where Robert Baratheon counted many enemies, where sometimes men would talk out loud.

 

 

It was beautiful, it was smelly, it was crowded and Arya felt slightly assaulted as she walked past the touts, snake charmers and others that would separate her from either her money or her honor, even with the scarf and covered arms. Fucking Tangier. After one such encounter, she stood closer than propriety allowed to Jaqen, improperly whispering in his hair. “Spain. Take me to Spain. Later. When we’re done.”

Jaqen bowed his head, smiled slightly and then closed his eyes when she whispered the second part into his ear.

Jaqen replied, evenly. “A man will let you.”

 

 

They hurried.  They had shopped, and Jaqen took Arya to lunch and taught her about the food, the table manners.  She was preparing for their evening. They had decided to swim, and bathe; they’d leave for Spain tomorrow.  Jaqen made a few phone calls; she could pick up bits of his conversation as he set up god knows what with god knows who for their next journey.

 

The beach was uncomfortable for Arya. It was crowded and even though she kept her caftan on until she climbed into the water, she then had to dodge swimmers. She longed for even _Illinois Lake Michigan_ at that moment, and then swam as far out as she dare. She floated, or tried - Jaqen laughed as he caught up with her.

“Truly this water is too warm for you.  Come. To the Atlantic, perhaps.”

They dove underwater and tangled their limbs, locking themselves at the mouth, writhing under the slight bobbing of the waves.  Arya pushed her tongue into his mouth, two sea snakes entangled.  They kissed under the water, feeling the sensation of the seawater and their buoyancy as long as they could until they surfaced and only broke apart to gasp for breath.

 

 

They collapsed back at their pied-a-terre, damp from their swim and sweat.  

It was his turn to strike, but he did it in his lazy, calm, Jaqen way, slowly kissing her, torturing her, opening her as she lay quivering.  He slipped two fingers into her, caressed her slowly, gently, wave after wave of his hand and fingers, washing against the shoreline of her pleasure, endless.

Her voice softly mewling, inflammatory, and some light went on in him and he held her down and tensed, pounced and fucked her, roughly, more loudly than his tendency, he growled in her ear _and a fucking girl will suck it, and she devour it, all of it, every fucking inch I will give her and she will take it take it I will have her... mine mine mine_ he groaned as she answered him with her grip and her cries, pressure building and building and then he detonated at the apex of their perfection because then so it was

 

exactly as he had desired it

exactly as he had told her it would be

and so it was

 

And they lay once again, Arya, jelly-like and slightly in awe that she felt she could never tire of his sex.

And her bones knit themselves back together, blood vessels rejoined, nerves reassembled, her muscle fiber bundled itself back into form, and Arya Stark came back into herself, sat up deliberately and kissed his forehead.

 

 

Arya looked at her phone again. Now or never.

Arya took the fastest way out.

_San! I’m sorry, so sorry. I’m fine. Heading to Spain.  Very little service call you later, be happy I’m not mooning around Winterfell_

The last sentence would buy her some goodwill. _Maybe._

 

 

She brushed her hair into a shining sail, put on the silk dress she purchased earlier - it fell to the floor but her arms and neck were like a beacon until she wrapped a silken shawl and scarf around her arms and head to be proper.

Mercy put lipstick on.

Jean came to meet her, smiling a little evil half smile; Jean almost always kept his lips closed. Jean’s hair was slicked back and he stood a little differently than Jaqen.

He handed her something, presented it quietly, looked up through his lashes at her.

“A lovely girl needs no adornment, but a man knows how practical she can be.”

She unwrapped the package: the ornate knife that he had grabbed to protect himself this morning when she ambushed him, the patterns she had traced with fingertips.

She smiled coquettishly, like she imagined Mercy would, and pushed her breath up to the roof of her mouth as she spoke.

“A girl must thank a man.”

  


Robert Baratheon had friends in strange places, and enemies everywhere, it seemed.  Jaqen seemed to know about one of his previous haunts - _here?_ Arya wondered, _not enough whores here,_ and apparently Mr. Baratheon had left a few of the regulars high and dry at one of Tangiers finest ex-pat establishments.

 _We’ll be in good company._  Arya thought. _That fucking lech._ Mr Baratheon had drunk himself to death, choking on his own vomit, apparently not soon enough for his cunty wife Cersei Lannister, who then proceeded to quickly push Robert’s brother out of  the company.

Apparently, Mr. Baratheon visited Tangier frequently. He fancied himself quite the playboy,  very publicly jumping to Spain, the South of France, Greece and occasionally in Tangier and Marrakech, and then jetting off privately for darker pursuits in Thailand until returning, mollified briefly, back to Cersei.

 

The thought of him was an irritant to her.  The thought of finding out more about him, that was a stimulant.  

Jaqen called to her. “We must make sure that we know just who we are, lovely girl. For although Arya Stark is quite enchanting, it would not do to take her into this place.  Tonight I need a different woman at my side.”

Arya sat up straight.  Oh, he’d get a different woman, then.

He had tied the dagger to her, under her chest, with one of the silken scarves the had picked up at the souk. He marveled at the silk around her breast; it was warm like skin; his fingers were drawn to it, circling.  He grinned at the blade waiting underneath. “A girl will not need it, but must get used to the feeling against her skin.”

He continued, patiently: a lesson. “A girl must be prudent. We may hear nothing, do not be bored. We may hear something. Do not react.  We are just out, tonight. Mercy is a nice girl, almost too sweet..” Jaqen grinned. “A little..frothy..for a man’s taste, but not for Jean’s.”

“A man just left his job at Baratheon Industries because of Cersei, and he hates Cersei Lannister.”

He snarked. “Everyone hates Cersei Lannister.  If there is anyone there who knows Robert Baratheon, they will talk openly. If there are those who are on Cersei’s side, they will have heard it before. And Cersei pushed Robert Baratheon in his every business transaction.  Except his whoring, maybe.”

“Now, my different woman. A test.  Who are you?”

Arya widened her eyes, and tried to become.

“Mercy.” She smiled, dimpling, held out her hand sweetly. “Mercy Sloane.”

Mercy stood up, flouncing slightly; she wasn’t the kind of girl to be late for a dinner date, and besides, she _was_ excited to go out with Jean.

_Arya was not above blurring Mercy’s lines, just a bit._

  


They ate dinner at the hotel. Apparently, Mercy could not think straight until she had some food in her system. The whole of Tangier seemed decorated, but the hotel itself was opulent beyond her imagination, outside the constraints of the casbah, more liberal than the ancient city.  Nourished, flushed with their surroundings - Jean was decidedly more macho, gregarious, lively than Jaqen - he pulled off her scarf, shawl - no need here - they moved to the bar and surveyed the room.

Tourists, in some part - rich ones at that. A cadre of western businessmen. A few couples, scattered. Mercy flashed a sweet smile at a man that took a seat next to her.   _How the hell were they supposed to do this, again?_

He was British, a little drunk, as were the two men with him. Mercy bumped her arm against his gently but didn’t look at him until she had made contact three times, and then looked over again, the sweet smile preceding a sweeter apology.

“Delightful, please continue; my arm is at your service.”  The man looked over, he was older, slightly drunk.

Mercy flushed a little. “I’m so sorry. Two glasses of wine and apparently I’ve completely lost my motor skills.”

“Two is it? What happens if you have a third?”  The Brit was slightly amused.

Jean leaned in.  He laughed. “I don’t know about a third glass for her, but she dances over the bar at her fourth.”  He mock-motioned the bartender.

They laughed, and Mercy looked appropriately mock-indignant. “Honestly, love!”  She smiled again, shook the Brit’s hand.  “Mercy. This is Jean.”

“Oliver. Holiday for you two?”

Mercy nodded.  “Indeed. And you?”

“No holiday, I’m afraid, and hence I can take my fourth and fifth glasses of wine without the possibility of commandeering the bar. I have some business here, heading back to the beautiful weather of London tomorrow.”

“London!  We were just there, last month.”  Mercy added, politely. “Beautiful city. Incredible shopping.”

“Another vacation, eh?”

Jean leaned in. “It was business. Mostly.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

Jean smiled, wryly. “Supply chain consultant, specializing in multi-national procurement and logistics.  My previous firm dealt with reconstruction in the middle east, but I’m on a bit of an extended vacation at the moment.”  

Briefly Arya marveled at his American accent. And his ability to toe the Baratheon corporate waters, create the subterfuge. It was incredibly hot: a different man, the same man.   _Oh, hey there Jean._

“One of my clients has a large division handling reconstruction projects in the Middle East. Tricky work.  Who do you work for?”

“Past tense, I’m afraid. I worked for Baratheon Industries.”

Oliver cocked an eyebrow.  “Baratheon Industries? They’re taking a different turn now that Robert Baratheon is gone.”

“I’d say. My poor Jean.” Mercy flashed a look of polite scorn, indignant on her lover’s behalf, less by half a reaction than what Arya Stark would have given.

Jean clutched her shoulders. Oliver smiled. “You’d not be the first one to say that.  Baratheon Industries is a competitor to my client. As of late, they’ve become quite cutthroat.”

Jean grimaced. “I’d agree, as my throat was cut as well - at least my job - when Cersei Lannister took over, hence our extended vacation at the moment.”

Oliver smiled in assent. “Beg pardon, but she is quite awful. We found her undercutting us, took a look into where her savings were, and it was quite dodgy to say the least. I’m not entirely sure how she did it, but she was able to completely block us, politically.”

Mercy felt Jean's fingers pinching her thigh and then trailing down her leg, under the bar. _Noted. And: Mmmmm._

Mercy became righteously indignant, a good wife. “I hate to say this, but she’s horrible. Jean worked for Baratheon for years. Not two weeks after Cersei took over, she fired him, just canned him. He was too honest, maybe?”

Oliver raised a glass. “Horrible indeed.”  He drank. “She quite wants to dominate that space, and Americans, Brits, anyone in her way, she’ll take out. We lost a few local men on the ground, really strange circumstances, if your definition of strange is getting shot in the head.”

Jean made appropriate sympathetic noises. “Strange circumstances, indeed…have they investigated her?”

Oliver laughed, drained his glass. “Not to my knowledge, yet. I never thought I’d miss old Robert Baratheon in the industry, but at least he was human. Cersei wants world domination, apparently, and Afghanistan is an easy place to start.”

In Arya’s studies she had never heard the words _easy_ and _Afghanistan_ together. She took another sip of her wine, her glass at its end.

Jean motioned for another. He changed the subject as if not wanting to go beyond the bounds of a casual industry discussion between peers.

They spoke of the upcoming election, of Brexit and what it meant to their field, the general coarsening of political dialog in general. Oliver had two sons at Cambridge.  Mercy had wanted to study there. Oliver liked Manchester. Jean liked the 49ers. Mercy didn’t care, but she did like the halftime show, _did they have something similar for soccer games_ ? Oliver was only in Tangier for another few days before meeting his wife and children in Montpelier for a proper holiday.  Jean and Mercy were traveling on to Paris.   _Everyone loved France._ Arya had one more glass of wine, piping in here and there but more generally, less boldly, like Mercy might.

Jean stood. “Before my sweet wife dances on the bar - I should get her back to the hotel.” He shook Oliver’s hand.  Oliver pressed a business card into his.  Jean reached for his pocket, and in mock dismay, showed that he had none with him.

 

They walked back towards the Medina.

Jaqen spoke. He was Jaqen again, the American accent gone.

“A girl did well. It is as if a man had a different woman with him. More... _obedient, sweet, protective of her husband.”_

Mercy smiled demurely. She was not ready to be herself, quite yet.  She looked at him shyly, pushed her words out in Mercy’s way, sweet pink bubbles wafting towards him.

“Obedient? I live to serve.”

Jaqen’s eyebrow arched, and he watched as Mercy subtly swayed in front of him, walking up the stairs to their apartment.  He opened the door at the top of the landing, bowed slightly as he waved her in.

“A girl will show me just how well she obeys.”

The door closed.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this time LadyGrey gets a bottle of prosecco and some bubble-gum flavored codeine syrup for her awesomeness. 
> 
> OKAY NOW!


	12. a man is very good at it

_Oh, a girl would obey._

But first, she had to satisfy her curiousity.

“What is Robert Baratheon’s business in Afghanistan?”

“Was.” Jaqen corrected. “Apparently it belongs to Cersei now.”

Arya grimaced. “Is, was, will be...but what?”

“Did a man not say? The business of reconstruction, on the surface.”

“And below the surface?”

Jaqen considered.  “That is yet to be seen, lovely girl.” They shared a grim smile.

Jaqen radiated out a certain peace to her. It was unnatural. He was so composed, and she just felt like a hurricane at times, trying to enlarge her tiny eye of calm. He was an ember, heat self-contained until he sparked against her.

They sat down, encircled, faces close.

“A girl did well tonight, acting as another.”

He reached for her legs.  

“And although a man appreciated her _...efforts,_ he finds himself somehow still desiring Arya Stark and her...willfulness...not Mercy.”

He laid her down. “Perhaps a girl does not need to obey, tonight.”

She thought of who Mercy could be; thought of what her normalcy was, wondered about Mercy’s version of comfort as Jaqen slowly moved his hands on her.

She sat up slowly with the thought in her head, and gently pushed him down, and quite tenderly fucked him. Tonight, she was a conscientious lover, giving, and she felt her passion rise up as she pleased him.  She had soft kisses for him, exploring, and soft hands for both of them, caressing herself and him in equal measure, and rode him almost daintily, her softness contrasted with the edge of him, hard as metal.

  
  


As he started to come, madly focused on the hot resistance of her cunt, the rest of her yielding, curved, soft flesh, he realized that she was Mercy, she was more Mercy _now_ than she had been all night.  

The realization caught in his throat and he expelled it in a groan, and he thrashed to shoot further and further into her until she yelped in pleasure and crumpled on him like a ragdoll.

  


 

When Arya awoke, she was surprised to find Jaqen already awake, coffee made, and for the slightest moment giggled as she realized he was _humming._

Jaqen _was_ humming. The sun was shining through the window, the sea was visible far out the little windows, the walls of the casbah holding their apartment and the core of this city in its arms.

He had been.. _.surprised_ was too strong of a word, but _pleased, yes,_ with Arya’s ability to restrain herself last night, her instinct to get Oliver to start talking.  Blind intelligence gathering was difficult.  His own skill in the matter had been honed over years.  At this point, he was able to take advantage of his past - growing up in different continents, a quiet child, listening - and blend in.

His lovely girl stuck out like a sore thumb, but somehow she had turned into something different for a bit last night.

Just so.

 

_Today we go to Spain._

He flicked on his duties.  He had checked in with his Somali associate; the death of Ramsay Bolton had, as he had hoped, been accounted for in the press as a horrible accident, a consequence of having several hundred pounds of snarling dogs. _The dogs ate the snake. Just so._  It was better than he had hoped, and perhaps it had bought him some time to spend with his lovely girl.  He would show her, would take her, as much as he could, across Europe, across the Middle East.  She was so American to him, all wildness and forests and water, and he loved watching the history of these lands juxtaposed against her enthusiasm.

The associate had also helped clear his way to their next destination, a pied-a-terre in southern Spain, outside of Barcelona; another small safe house.  He knew this one was particularly well-suited for a lovely girl...he hoped his luck would hold for a few weeks, that he could continue to immerse himself in this bucolic haze of sun and sex and her that had intoxicated him, loosened his tongue, filled his eyes, sated him.

He would keep her with him, as long as he was able. Able to control himself.

  
  


“Jaqen...heyyyyy!!”  She was grinning, lazing in bed, begging him to bring her coffee.  “And my phone…” She grimaced. “I’ve been avoiding Sansa, need to come clean.  And Jon. And Bran.”

“So  a man should continue to bring the coffee, is that so?”  He set the cup down, his back a clean line.  She stretched, still enshrouded by the comfort of sleepy limbs, warm pillows, her own flesh attuned to not only Jaqen’s ministrations but by the air that blew around it, by fluctuations of temperature.

She grinned.  “Yes, a man should bring coffee, endlessly.  And food. _Please_.”

He bowed. “Such a hungry girl, always. It is fortunate that a man never gets tired of feeding her.”

One cup of coffee in, the phone in her hands. She’d been putting this off long enough.  She grimaced.

 

A text, first, to Jon.

_Jon. Jon. Jon. My favorite, sweetest brother. I am so sorry. I am fine - good actually. I’m glad I left for a bit, I am heading to Spain later today.  I promise you I’ll call Sansa, but heads up I’m trying purposely to ignore my phone. Be safe my brother!_

Sansa. She couldn’t call her, couldn’t text her - it was 3 a.m. in Chicago. An email, she’d send an email, a short one. 

_Sansa!!!_

_Do you miss me?! Don’t fret little bird, I am fine.  Better than fine. I’m headed to Spain today, spent the last few days in Tangier. The city is ancient, it’s beautiful - strange, different.  Not in the upper peninsula anymore, I guess._

_San, not trying to avoid you, just really trying to absorb this little vacation and keep the phone out of my hands for a bit.  I promise I’ll be in touch soon, the time difference makes it hard to connect with you.  I love you, San, please give Bran my love, and Robb too, if you talk to him.  AND DON’T WORRY._

_Love you - A_

 

Duty, done. Arya felt a weight lift off of her, a small guilt. She was not yet ready to try to divine Jaqen to her family - something that felt like a tectonic shift in her entire person - because how do you add another continent to yourself, and explain it?  And so suddenly - the continent had not drifted, it had been pushed by some incredible force, by pressure and magma and seemingly like there was no other choice, it was predetermined.

_Spain, today we go to Spain!_

Adrenaline from that thought pushed away the veil of sleepiness from her bones, and she downed her coffee and intercepted Jaqen in the kitchen before he could bring her the small plate he was preparing. _Comfort, home._ Her lover-smile emerged, and they sat at the table together, discussing their plans.

 

A plane to Barcelona - maybe two hours.  A drive to a small village outside the city  - another hour.   _He was hiding something, always_! she thought, but something else this time, something for her.  She could tell, there was an expectancy in his gaze, like someone waiting for you to open a gift they knew you would love.

“A man has chosen well, he hopes, for his lovely girl.”  His eyes crinkled, he was relaxed, lazy. Fondness.

They finished their breakfast, readied themselves, and packed - and Arya took one last look across the strangeness, the intricacy of the apartment that had sheltered them in the casbah and silently sent a prayer of thank you into its walls, wondering how many other had done the same, century after century, in this ancient pace.

She was Mercy again, but this time in physical body only, as she handed her passport over.  The flight was short and Arya marveled at what she could see of the Mediterranean through the plane windows. She thought of her lake - the difference in topography along the shore of Superior, dense forests surrounding it, the rocky shores.  The Mediterranean was beautiful, civilized.

They landed in Barcelona; Arya expected to hail a cab but Jaqen took her out of the airport where they rode a train for about twenty minutes. She drank in what she was seeing, the people, the buildings, the way the light bounced off the city.  She was grateful to have escaped the confines of Tangier, felt her hair unbound ( _how many fucking touts would have catcalled me in Tangier,_ she narrowed her eyes, _with my fucking hair unbraided)_ and safely, without the societal restraints, took Jaqen’s hand as it reached for hers, silently, on the train.

 

When they exited she was surprised to find a man waiting for them.  It was not the same man she had seen at the airport in London; he was tall, his face dark, kind but remote.  Jaqen motioned for her to stay put as they moved aside and spoke in a language Arya could not divine.  She felt the man assess her, indirectly; she knew he was absorbing more information than any casual bystander would.

Jaqen introduced her and for she acknowledged his trust in her; this was an associate, not a friend.

“Gaani. This is Arya Stark.”  

 _Not Mercy, here, with this man._ Arya bowed, smiled, and observed him. She saw their power structure; he was not subservient to Jaqen but in whatever way they were related, Jaqen was respected by Gaani.

The trust Jaqen bestowed upon her was not unnoted.

Gaani bowed goodbye, kissed her on both cheeks, let his smile reach his eyes as he left them.

 

“We’re here, we’re here!!”   Enthusiasm rose through her.

“We are, and we aren’t, lovely girl. We still have a small way to travel.”  Jaqen shook a set of keys in his hand.

Gaani had brought them a car.  Freedom - a very American thought - we’ll be free to go as we wish.

She shivered, and they drove out of magical Barcelona in the tiny Fiat, making their way past villages, with Jaqen explaining about Gaani as he drove fast, keeping an eye out for the Guardia Civil to make sure that his haste would not backfire.

“Gaani is one of the first a man had met.  He has become like a brother to me, in some ways. Having a trustworthy soldier at hand is most convenient - having one that you respect and like - that is something else entirely.”

“Does he go with you then.” Arya wanted to know more. He had opened a small window for her, last night, with their small act; what else did this strange man do. He drove nonchalantly, relaxed with an arm lazily out one window, but like a demon - they were overtaking cars every few minutes.

“Usually a man is mostly by himself. There are others, in the city, but they handle...the rest of it. Some information. Some communications.  They are usually hidden, as am I, but in different shadows.  We may talk, but may not, during a job.”

Arya watched the landscape blur by. His driving was slightly terrifying, but he had control. _Of course he did._  “Jaqen, what else _can_ you tell me? About what you do? About you?”

She continued. “It’s the strangest thing. I feel like I understand you. Your soul. Your whole persona. I don’t need to talk, I don’t feel any...discomfort, or strangeness. And then I come to and realize that I really don’t know anything about your surface.”

She swallowed. She did not want to seem impatient; his secrets did not impact who she thought he was at his center, and the center was most important to her.

“You don’t have to tell me. But I am curious, how can I not be?”

He thought about what to tell her, how much, as he navigated past an ailing Peugeot.

“A girl is curious. As she should be. This thing is strange by any measure, no?”  The side of his mouth crooked up.  

“A girl can ask questions - do not feel bad, my sweet girl - a man will tell you if he cannot answer.”

An opening. She seized. But so many questions, which one?   _Fuck it, start with the biggest one._

“Why? Why do you do this? It’s such a strange life. It’s like a movie. It’s surreal.”

She did not have judgment in her tone, only curiosity, and this spurred Jaqen to an honest answer.

“It is...most fulfilling work, Arya.  In one strike, a man can stop many atrocities. Do you ever notice the people that weave the background of the city?  The people who serve, the people who are just trying to live, no agenda?  Those people are the most impacted by...my targets.  Those that a man hunts would enslave these people, if not in word than in duty, with terror.”

He smirked a bit more. “And, a man is very good at it.”

“You don’t say.” She jested, a bit. “A man is good at everything, is he?  And hopefully he is also good at” -  her eyes widened as a truck blurred by, Jaqen passing it - “driving, as well, or we will be smashed into pieces here. FUCK, Jaqen, slow down just a bit.”

  


They drove up to a small villa, near a small village about an hour away from Barcelona.  Tossa De Mar, from the road signs. The house was situated on the Mediterranean, off to itself. It was on the shore. Arya was excited.

The house was tiny, perfect. A small living area, sparsely furnished; a room with a few computers, a bedroom.  Some food in the kitchen, fresh - Gaani, maybe? She wondered.  It was strangely reminiscent of the A frame in Winterfell - stocked, sparsely furnished, ready for him. A courtyard outside guarded by a huge tree alight in yellow blossoms.

Best of all, a short walk to the sea, sparkling and tumbling, slightly protected by the curve of a bay, the village visible down the coast - a large structure, too far to make out up ahead. No one on the beach. The prospect of swimming, floating, of having the space and time to really think, buoyant in the sun, was beyond excitement.

She stood, arched her back and kissed him, pressed into him, his arms everything. She wanted him now - but she needed the water.  She pulled him to get ready to swim, ran like a child into the water, and swam out as far as she could, assessing the tides, the pull.  

He caught up with her, a distance out from the shore, as she rested, treading water, waiting for him.  They embraced in the water, Arya reached for him and he groaned as he felt the sensations - the primal need to stay afloat, the heat from her, the want, and the strangeness of the water being party to their embrace.  As she moved her fingers around the head of his cock, wild, he writhed trying to stay above water, and spasmed as his seed mingled with the ocean.

_Always in control, except when it came her._

She was smug, satisfied, and she turned on her back and floated like a sea creature in the warm, salty water.

“My most beautiful, lovely girl. Arya.” The Y lingered. He sighed, tried to float as she did. It was harder than it looked, for him.  

She laughed, dove, pulled at his half soft cock underwater, and came up still laughing. “I believe, sweet Jaqen, that THING that enslaves me also serves as an anchor for you.”

She pulled him to shore, and they lay on the beach. Colors seemed more saturated here, in Spain, in their little village; the sea was blue beyond possibility, the golden sand, the green of the trees, the red roof of their villa.  It was too beautiful, too much, and she closed her eyes, absorbing the sun, napping in the soft sand, Jaqen warm and electric, laying beside her.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still with me, kids?
> 
>  
> 
> for this chapter I give to my lovely beta one Roose: dressed sharp, feeling impatient, and already slightly drunk.


	13. under his control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, because I truly value her fingers and brain and she's done hours and hours of editing this week.
> 
> Pushed out because...even though this chap is really dark, I love it. 
> 
> [aural representation of chap](https://youtu.be/MF4z5fn0kyQ)  - a beautiful, blurry dream, wistful, a bit sad

Spain was a dream, soft-edged, prismatic, and warm.

Arya woke up early every day, and took a swim by herself to clear her head.

There was, of all things, a castle in the village towering over the water. Arya hadn’t seen it when they first arrived, but on one long swim she looked down the coast and saw it standing sentry over the village. After that she spent hours exploring the stone pathways and great rooms, either with Jaqen or alone.

At a small cafe she studied furiously, scribbling tangled notes and then unraveling them into pages of writing.

Jaqen was also working - talking to god knows who; sometimes in low tones, sometimes in the closest thing to anger it seemed he could produce. The cold tone made her shiver. After the worst of his phone calls he would become unreachable for a bit, remote, pacing around their villa.

Arya had stopped trying to count the number of languages that he could speak, and just focused on the consistencies in his voice - no matter how hard-edged the language, the velvet of his voice always resonated.

He taught her how to use the dagger: how to hold it, how to slash with, the best place to stash it.

She practiced karate with Jaqen on the wet sand by the waterline, laughing as he would roll and dodge away from her.

They drank in the bar in the village. A David Bowie song came over the radio, and Arya pulled him to dance, laughing as he swayed while she pogoed around him. She sang every Bowie song she knew loudly and drunkenly on the walk home, and Jaqen ended up carrying her for the last half mile.

They sunbathed for hours, breaking to get in the water, crawling out to the sand.

They ate seafood stew, soft cheese, cured meats.

They pleasured each other, incessantly, if they were together Jaqen’s hands were rarely out of reach of her body, drawn to her sides, her neck, her breasts.

She knew his body like it was hers; knew when it was best to let him sleep; knew when he needed to escape her energy; knew when he needed it. And they gave and received endlessly like the waves crashing outside.

 

 

One week in Spain. Arya returned after an afternoon swim to find Jaqen, heated, again, on the phone - just as she had left him. As she sat in the courtyard, looking at the waves, she heard his footsteps move toward her.

Some shadow was on his face, his forehead remained creased, eyes slightly narrowed.

And he struck.

He took his pants off, took the belt out of the loops, and picked her up and took her to the shadow of the yellow jacaranda tree and when he got the bottom of her bikini off grabbed her arms, binding them with the belt, winding it around her wrists behind her back, tightly tied.

She was not able to undo her arms, the bark scratched her back and her wrists burned, and she was nervous and inflamed by turns. She stood against the tree, her breasts jutting out as her arms were so roughly behind her.

He did not meet her eyes and there was a hardness in his face that she did not recognize.

He slid his palm slowly up to her ass, pushed her cunt to his expressionless face. He held it there, breathing it in, starting to move his thumb up and down the soft skin trailing to her ass, back and forth lazily, while his palm reached up and his fingers could feel the damp of the sea in the curve of her ass.

His finger moved slowly and Arya braced herself, and she felt her areolas tighten, a hum behind them, shooting right back up to where she could feel his breath still coming in waves, not touching it, just the lazy finger skirting closer and closer.

The slow hot thumb was the only thing that moved - his hands were massive, and the thumb felt slightly rough he increased the pressure, but moved at the same agonizing pace. Back. And forth.

“Jaqennnnhhhhhh...” Arya couldn’t move him, couldn’t budge him; his body was like a statue that had grown up around her and trapped her into one pose, exposed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand move from the golden red hairs that curled at the base of his cock to stroke it up, all the way up, and move his hand in tandem with the movements of his thumb tracing the small line between her cunt and her ass.

She was empty but for the hot breath that would touch the outside of her mound, and the thumb that tracked back and forth as if deciding where it wanted to land.

He kept her in that hold, tied, the bark of the tree biting into her back, as he pleasured himself with that stranger’s expression on his face. He gave her no response. It was as if she wasn’t there.

She hissed - his denial, his strangeness making her blood rise in anger, fear and desire in equal measures. It was so close, _WHY ARE YOU._.. and why wouldn’t he just _FUCK HER ALREADY_ and _STOP THIS_ and _I WANT_ and her voice was saying it out loud, and still he kept her wriggling, the only touch was the palm of his hand and his fucking thumb, languidly moving, and he was not only keeping it from her but he was denying her movements, for every time she moved her hips the thumb and hand kept her in place like iron.

She twisted as hard as she could and fell, hands still bound. Jaqen kept one hand still slowly stroking his cock, roughly pushing her flat on her back to lay on the carpet of spent flower blossoms and gravel. His eyes were hard, glinted and no emotion touched his face.

He moved so she could see him, so he could pin one arm; she was helpless under his weight and she saw the veins on his cock strain to the head. He wanted her to see. He knew what she saw.

Still lazily slowly stroking himself, the thick long fingers moving around his shaft purposefully.

_Under control._

She thrashed on the ground, pebbles grinding into her back and she felt her sex swollen, hot, and the only thing she could do was squeeze her thighs together, straining. Jaqen Jaqen NOW and the words ripped out through her breath, and as she started to whimper and NOW but he just pushed his cock nearer to her face, touching her neck with it, moving it over as he immobilized her, and now it just traced her neck, staying away from the mouth.

A small drip on the head, and he frowned at it, wiped it with his finger and finally touched her, rubbed it roughly on her lip, her tongue reaching to catch his finger before he could pull it away. His hand went back to its stroking, and as she licked the small bitter smear on her lips she felt her eyes well. Confusion, frustration dripping down her face and onto her neck.

And Jaqen saw that, and he moved, positioning himself with knees crushed against her hips, her tied arms above her head. He pinned her, sitting on her thighs with just his tip slicked into her lips. He put his fingers into her mouth, and she tried to tease him to move into a rhythm with the movement of her tongue. He roughly forced her mouth open so that she could not suck the fingers any longer, keeping it under his control and open too wide, and kept her pinned with the head of his cock embedded in her, not moving, not giving, and she saw his hand carefully stroke his shaft, stroke himself, not touching her.

A plaintive noise emanated from her throat and past his cruel fingers.

The noise broke his resolve. His teeth bit her neck, breaking skin. Savagely he pushed into her, thrusting as far as he could and a few hard strokes later he gave a growl that started in his solar plexus and ripped out of his throat, his face contorting as he came.

Arya watched him come, struggling against her bondage, the pain of his knees and his fingers rolling through her. She snarled as he finished, not satisfied: confusing waves of want and anger and fear warring in her. He pulled out of her and collapsed, slackjawed, not facing her until his breathing steadied a few heartbeats later. Only then did he release her hands from the belt. She rolled over and her stomach, angrily finish satisfying herself, the small unclenching in her core no payment for the anger of the moment.

She stood up and stalked off, tears falling out of her eyes, slamming a door.

 

  
  
_The test. Failed. She makes a man lose his control._

Jaqen was speechless, after he came to his senses. He lay under the jacaranda tree, listening to the waves crash in. He was seized by a desire to get in the water. Still naked he walked out; their beach was private, and no one would be close enough to care or see him.

He emulated her swim, moving out to right past the swells and treading water, turning on his back. Arya could float at will; Jaqen had to will his body into the correct position, and then felt himself sinking. For one moment he allowed himself to sink and noted that the buoyancy from his slackened figure pushed him aloft. _It is without effort_ he thought _it is only done without effort because the effort drags you down..._

And he released all tenseness from himself and allowed the water to rinse his face unflinching when a swell bobbed him past total buoyancy, and he laid like this, prostrate on the water, allowing his thoughts to run through him.

 

Arya lay in the bed, in their bed, nauseous. The undercurrents of what just happened overwhelmed her. They played their sex power games over and over, but the foundation of them was always pleasure, not cruelty. Someone always yielded, sooner, whoever was in control would give it, either bit by bit or all at once, not the total denial she had just received. Never had she been face to face with Jaqen and felt like she’d been with a stranger.

Her trust had gone and that made her stomach lurch, made her off balance.

She showered and carefully combed out her hair, pulled it into a braid, taking a bottle of wine out to the courtyard and sat against the jacaranda tree, glass of wine in one hand and a Gitane in the other. She dragged on the cigarette deeply, saw as Jaqen finally emerged from the sea, naked as the day of his birth, late afternoon lighting him.

He flopped at her feet, rubbing her arches.

“Arya.”

“What the FUCK Jaqen.” Exhaling, smoke through her nostrils.

“My sweet -”

“Don’t you _FUCKING_ sweet girl me, what in the actual FUCK were you thinking?” Her words flew like arrows, her voice soft, dangerous.

“A man...” He paused, finding his words.

Her voice a hiss, seething. A snake’s warning. “A man WHAT.”

He looked up from her feet to her face.

“A man has failed a test, or a girl has passed it.”

Confusion.

“A girl makes a man lose all control, all that he has, all that he has ever had.”

 _“That_ was about fucking control?”

Her voice pitched. She stared at her cigarette, flicking the ashes, not caring where they landed, and took another long drag in.

“A man can not lose control.”

“Well, you certainly aren’t in control now, are you, Jaqen H’ghar.” She spat, and the words came out of her mouth mingled with the smoke.

The use of his last name raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

He pulled himself up to sitting position, cooled his eyes. “A girl can make a man lose his control, yes, but she has none of her own.”

They sat there, staring at each other, her willing the smoke into her lungs and out through her nose, he concentrating on his every muscle, every fiber, bending it to his will.

They sat behind their own little walls until the sun started to go down over the achingly beautiful Mediterranean Sea.

 

  
Jaqen willed himself to turn, willed himself to control himself.

His duty had been calling, more and more insistently over the past few days, including the man from whom he took his orders. There was dissent, major dissent about him having a lover unassociated with his job, and having that lover be a Stark, so dangerous to him, to them. They were waiting, they had prepared everything for him, queued up for him to get in there and mercilessly and without being seen take out a woman, this time. A woman tangled deep in the network he had been plundering. And the longer he waited, the more entangled that woman became, and the more lives were lost, and the wider circle of death he must spread to make sure that all was handled.

  
_The test, this was a test, he had_ failed failed _and she had passed, she had_ cheated _, it was not supposed to be like this_

He had wanted to take her with him, but he had to make sure that he was still him, still able to become no one, to bend to no will, but he failed he failed  
_He could not keep her safe, or himself_ safe, _if he was able to lose control_

He bent his head to his chest, put his thoughts into the universe, and grabbed her feet, softly, kissing them, reverently and softly rolling her toes into his mouth, gently sucking them, making his tongue supplicant and warm and soft over her arches, thumbs rubbing her heels, the most pliant position he could assume, servile.

“A man is so sorry. Arya Stark Aryyya Stark.” He moved his mouth from her feet.

“A man loves you beyond reason, beyond control and beyond desire. With his soul and his body and his life.”

His voice strengthened.

“A man loves Arya Stark.”

  
Trust is a funny thing, sometimes it can take a long time to build, or it can be created instantly under the right circumstances, with the right people. The inverse is also true. Losing trust can happen in a single instance or it can be death by a thousand cuts and before long, trust has eroded beyond safety, beyond repair.

 

  
Arya recoiled from Jaqen’s words, Jaqen’s touch, and gathered herself in, making herself as small of a target as possible. She pulled her feet from Jaqen’s ministrations and tucked them under herself - _mine._

He sat on his knees, his back bent slightly, bowed, Arya could see the ridge of his spine, his shoulder plates straining outward, and all of his muscles gracefully curved, like an animal’s perfect design.

If she could just erase the last hour or so of her life, go back out to the sea, and avoid...whatever demon that had just arose from him. She was unable to find her footing. _And then he said he loved her..._

He moved into child’s pose, this body conveying not rest but sorrow, and he allowed his being to soften and flatten either in penance, in sadness or in subterfuge she could not divine.

Arya’s anger pressed into a small cold ball in her stomach, and big, fat tears rolled down her face. She willed herself into silence, and hid her head, and allowed her trust to sting her eyes and wetten her face.

The light was gone when she finally uncurled herself, stiffly, ignoring him and walked into the house. She grabbed some bread and cheese and retreated to her bed.

She fell to a fitful sleep despite herself. She woke to find Jaqen’s form on the bed, as far from her as he could be, his eyes half open, staring at the ceiling.

She considered her options.

She could forgive him. This one...whatever it was...was the only time that she had not felt completely comfortable and excited by his presence.

She could leave, chalk this up to a an adventure, stories to tell, back in Chicago.

She wondered if she’d ever be able to find him again if she did. She closed her eyes, hugged her arms to herself and tried to will herself back to sleep.

  
Jaqen lay, meditating, pulling from the universe, from the sea, the cold energy waves from her body.

He pulled everything in his mind apart, deconstructed the complicated thoughts into elements: motivations, feelings, habits.

He was blindsided by his cruelty and could not reconcile it with the feelings that he had for her; he wanted to protect her, to consume her, to elevate her and to pray to her.

In his mind’s eye he imagined her with him as his partner, his equal, bound together.

His duties...complicated things. He had been increasingly alarmed at how his lovely girl had been woven into his next mission unaware. His superior, even Gaani, had warned him of keeping her close, reminded him over and over again about the need for secrecy - especially from her - and the trap tightened on his next mark. Fate had made these paths run together, and to ignore their intersection seemed imprudent, unappreciative.

He struggled in keeping it from her, testing his control and his duty, ironclad until the day that lightning struck and he saw the form of a girl flying through the air.

She deserved to know his next mission though, she had paid for it with the blood of her family, even as she was unaware.

His two selves fought each other, drew blood, came to another impasse as he felt her thrash on the bed next to him, her sleep restless and violent.

The dawn broke. When the sun had risen high enough to warm the air Arya dragged herself out of bed, slightly limp, and pulled herself to the ocean, picking up her swimsuit pieces, the bottom sadly where he had flung it off of her yesterday.

She moved out to the water, only coming up out of the water when she needed a breath, keeping her body a few feet under the surface, swimming out as far as she could. Her lungs burned and her side stitched and she came up, turned and faced the shore. She could see the nest of trees around their villa, the other villas sparsely scattered and becoming more concentrated as they approached the village itself, the reach of the castle at the edge of the shore.

It was a magical place.

It was also the place where Jaqen’s control vanished.

She floated and waited for the water to bring her to clarity but it would not, not without answers from him. She permitted herself the tears mingling with the Mediterranean, and alternating every few strokes on her back and on her stomach, made her way back to the villa.

 

Jaqen was waiting for her on the shore, coffee, a blanket, a mollified expression as he watched her form move towards him in the water, slowly growing larger.

His control of her. Of himself. Hers, of him.

He had tried to hold it too tightly. And it vanished through his fingers, the more he tried to keep his control.

_it is only done without effort because the effort drags you down_

He bowed his head, meditating silently, his decision made.

As she walked out of the water she saw him waiting. She fixed her eyes on him, he would receive no cover from her.

“Arya. Please.”

He motioned for her to sit, handed her the blanket to give her some protection, somewhere to hide if she needed it; the coffee to give her hands something to do, to revive her.

She regarded him with cold eyes, her face impassive.

  
“Arya. A man does not have enough words to tell you how sorry he is for her pain last night, for her sorrow, and most of all for breaking this trust that we have. A man could apologize until the life drained out of him and his heart would still be broken by his actions, his horror and the pain he sees on his love’s face.”

His breath hitched.

“Arya. Although a man does not deserve your trust placed in him, he must know that he can still place his trust in you, safely.”

She nodded, mutely.

He leaned and gave her the smallest kiss on her forehead, in part because he could not deny it, in part to register the amount that she stiffened.

She nodded, and air escaped from her lips. He continued before he lost his way.

“Arya Stark. A girl has bewitched a man, beyond anything his mind had thought possible. For the first time, doubts creep into a man’s soul, undercutting his purpose, undercutting his reason. For I would keep you with me, I would take you through the cities that I visit, I would make you my comfort, my partner, my constancy. Even as that is contrary to everything I have ever done.”

His next words broke from him quickly.

“Arya Stark, so much has come to the forefront with my duties this week, and it pains me to walk the line between loyalty to them and those I serve, and to you who I also serve. I must hear you speak, I can not go on until I hear your voice, know where your heart is.”

Arya broke down, her shield escaping her.

“You hurt me. You hurt me and you knew it. You saw it, and tried to hurt me more.”

"Yes." His head bowed.

“And you did it to see if you could keep your control? What fucking game is that, Jaqen.” She sneered.

  
“Arya, a man was wrong.”

  
He reached for her hand, and she gave him one, one, limp, but it was her hand, hers, and he covered it with both of his as if to save it from his next words.  
Softly, a whisper.

  
“Arya, my next target is greatly dangerous to me and especially to you. Fear took my control and my allegiances, mixing them together, confusing me. You must know this, you must understand with every fiber of your being my sorrow.”

  
He gently traced the skin between her thumb and finger.

  
“Arya, my next target is Cersei Lannister. And a man has asked his brothers to look into her connections with the Starks, digging into her web. We do not know, only what we can find in phone records, in transactions, in hacking into emails. We do not know for certain.”

  
His hand tightened on hers as if to still her from what would come next out of his mouth.

“But we think that Cersei Lannister took the lives of your family from the world this spring after Robert Baratheon’s death.


	14. like if a girl never was

 

_Cersei Lannister._

 

_That fucking cunt._

 

Anger and sadness were turgidly rolling in her core and she felt the acid of it rising up her throat and stinging.  Her extremities weakened as if all of her blood had drained out to feed the anger in her belly.  

Jaqen picked her up gently and carried her into the villa, setting her down on the couch and moving to the other side of it to give her some space.

Her thoughts formed a pale gold blur as she ran through her memories of Cersei.  The way her parents had reacted to Robert’s death. Cersei stalking the halls through Winterfell as if she would kick anything that dared get in her path. Robert too eager, talking to Ned, too agreeable, too jovial...too.. _everything._..when they came for their visit.

 _Cersei Lannister_.

She could have sat there all day and played through each memory, each time she’d barely paid attention when heard her parents mention their names.  Could have sat there all night, each mental image of Robert and Cersei solidifying her anger.

  
  


His time was growing short.  He needed to answer the rumblings for his duty. They had wanted him to leave that day; he refused point blank.  This drew some worry from the man who gave him his ultimate orders.

He knew too much for them to allow him to go away entirely. He had too many secrets, 83 of them in fact. A man sees, a man knows.

Now that duty became more than altruistic. If the suspicions of his brothers were correct it became personal.  Honor, vengeance for the confounding tangle of flesh and bones and brown hair that lay silently in front of him.

He would pay her back. It did not matter if she wanted him to do it. It was fate.

His mission solidified in his head. The question mark hanging was _her._ He would take her, if she would come.

He prayed, in his way, in front of her, meditating on her, willing his desire out into the universe.   _Cersei will die with a girl’s name on her lips. Just so. And a man will gladly spill her blood._

 

Arya could not find her horizon. Jaqen’s strangeness. The physical stamp of it, her neck and breast with small marks starting to heal, the rawness starting to scab over. Jaqen out of his body as he held her down, with those unfamiliar hands pushed against her jaw, still sore.

The words he spoke. _Love_ . What the fuck did that mean, with him, _love_ ? Love with someone you barely know but who you feel complete with?  Love as sanctuary _...until..._ What did that _mean_ to a man who could not stay in one place, to a girl running from her own path?  To a girl who felt it, too? She was drowning, drowning in all of it.

_Or was this the path?_

A beam of sun, melting a bit of her ice. _He loved her.  He did._ She moved, slightly, and reached towards him for a modicum of comfort.

His embrace circled her, protected her, warmed her and lifted her back up to the surface, allowed her to breathe again.

  


She needed to eat and needed to be away from the cloud that permeated the villa.  They drove into the village and grabbed the first thing they could find for dinner.

Arya found that she was famished, and as she ate quickly, messily, she saw Jaqen’s eyes guiltily land on the marks leading down her neck.  When they finished they walked through the town quietly, like two strangers sharing the same destination. They ended up on a bench outside of the castle.

He fumbled with his hands, just a bit - he wanted to touch her but willed his hands to stillness.

“Jaqen.” Her voice was small, ragged from crying and the Gitanes which were now in her pocket, one lit in her hand.

“Jaqen. Do not ever, ever, _confuse_ your control with your ability to inflict pain on me, ever, ever again.”

Her voice was dark, but there was the opening for him. _Ever ever again._  It was not forgiveness, but a start.

“Arya.  If only  I could show a girl how deeply my heart is broken, by my own hand.”

“Jaqen. I mean it.”  The coldness had gone from her eyes.

She cried again as she reached for him, and she kissed him and drew in his pain, and gave hers to him.  Jaqen fought the urge to cover her with kisses.  That would come, if the fates allowed it, later.

They walked together, Arya giving her hand. A small step towards redemption.

 

Back at home, there were plans that needed to be made.

She kissed him again, softly softly, in a way that opened the door and closed it. _That was the end of kissing, for now._

“Tell me about Cersei Lannister. Why...how you found out...when you found out.”

“A girls story about Cersei Lannister gave a man...pause. Before we left for Spain, a man asked his associates to look further into her association with the Starks. The money that a girl spoke of - “ he shrugged, a few million did not sway him - “would not ordinarily impact our targets so.  But Cersei Lannister is something else entirely. She breathes money, sleeps money, and she would just as well kill anyone that she owes, that Robert Baratheon owed, than pay them back.”

He watched her face. “Especially if that someone was Ned Stark, who happened to be meddling in her...additional business ventures.”

Arya motioned for him to continue, realized that she was gripping herself too tightly.

“It appears that one Cersei Lannister has leveraged herself far and away across the seas. In addition to the reconstruction business, operating in the Middle East, which profits when cities are destroyed, Cersei Lannister also profits from the destroyed cities in other ways.”

His voice just above a whisper, and he reached for her hands to save own self from their grip.  “Arya, she has armed the religious, _spurred them into Jihad,_ and now they create terror to all they consider non-believers.”

“And now she can’t stop them.”  Jaqen’s voice dropped a few degrees.

“And you’re going to kill her.” It was not a question, it was a statement from Arya.

“A man will, yes.” He bowed his head, looked up through his eyelashes. Normally that would send Arya’s temperature rising, but she held onto herself.

“When do you have to go?”  

“Soon, lovely girl, sooner than a man wishes. But... it would not do to keep Cersei Lannister’s death waiting. She breeds horror, and my brothers have learned enough about her thoughts, her habits and her targets for a man to come in and do the rest.”  Jaqen’s eyes narrowed and he looked terrible, horrible; Arya wondered how much of him was dark, was inflamed by his job. She flashed to his face yesterday, as she saw it from the ground, bound, pinned; herself flushed with lust and fear.  He was supremely frightening.

“Where?”  

“Lovely girl, Cersei is in Paris at the moment, and a man would catch her before she goes to her next destination, which is likely to be Moscow- far more dangerous to a man, far more ways to be found.  The French government is friendly to us, but Russia’s is not.”

“How do you know she was involved with my family’s death.” Arya closed her eyes.

“Records, emails, tracks seem to point to a flight into Sault Ste Marie, further away, a rental car and a cabin not far from where a man was staying.” Jaqen rubbed her fingers. “The records show that she sent two men out there in early April. One of them was reprimanded for leaving behind potential evidence.  These two men had rented a fine boat, and they sent a message to Cersei shortly after your parents death, although we could not decode the message itself, the timing and location were too much to ignore.”

He continued, softly. “A man learned this only earlier this week, lovely girl.”

Arya sighed, long, and shuddered.  Her parents, Rickon, had been _hunted.  Oh Bran...oh Bran..._

Jaqen continued, his eyes boring into her, his voice more soft than before, a low, slow purr. His words were an offering.  “Arya, a man would keep you with him, take you, teach you...and if you would learn, you could help me give Cersei Lannister the gift of death that she so rightly deserves.”

 _This was unexpected. “_ A girl will consider.”  She gave him a half smile, a tiny thing, all she could muster at the moment as she thought of what she needed to do. _She knew what she needed to do, and she did not want to…_

“A man would thrill to show his lovely girl Paris.  He could feed her day and night, if she wished.”

Jaqen teased her slightly, arrogantly, smiling to see her start to warm to him.

She had a more serious question, though, and she again gave him the smallest kiss. “Jaqen, do you ever stop this, this life?”

He looked at her, serious and his answer was a breath. “We never stop playing.”

“What do you mean.  What does...this...mean?” She felt annoyance flare.

“Lovely girl, a many has killed many snakes in his life - perhaps too many to ever try to return to a normal way of living.  There are too many eyes, watching.”

“If I go with you, what happens to me.”  

He cocked his head, thinking.

“A girl must be careful, beyond careful.  A girl can watch, learn, but she must always keep her eyes open.  Only if the time is right, can a girl help me -maybe she can not.  It will be done, it is just the time that is not certain.”  His eyes were serious.

Arya swallowed. “And after, Jaqen, what happens after.”

“A man will take a girl again, should she wish, and we would pick a place, any place, and go away.  For weeks, for months - a man will make sure.  This snake, this Cersei, her death will save many lives. But later - after” he waved his hand “A man will have duties again.”

His gaze was serious. “A girl must know how to handle her family, create a plan.  The Starks must not interfere.  The consequences could be disastrous, fatal.”

Arya swallowed.   _Fatal. She could not stay._

“So you will do this for the rest of your life.  You go from place to place, and you’ll keep killing, and you never stop.” Flat voice. Flat eyes.

_Stupid, stupid. She could not stay. Protect them. She had to._

“And you take women, take them with you?” Insecurity crept in.

“No.” His answer was fast, sure, and his hands tightened on hers.  His eyebrows furrowed.

“A girl is surely not the first a man has been with. There have been others, of course, a few. But a girl... is the only one who sees his true face, knows what he does, and a girl is the only one he has asked to join him.”

“The only one he wants to keep, the only one that he loves.”

He broke their contact, rubbed the crease in his forehead, looked up at the ceiling, dropped his eyes to her.

“Arya Stark. A man does not know why, or how, a girl creates such urgency in him, and has done it with a speed that is frightening. A man is no boy.” He smiled, his arrogance was tinged with some bit of ruefulness.  “A man has said.”

“A girl’s flesh and that which animates it, inhabits it.. It is ecstasy.”

Arya smiled sadly. _Ecstasy...his vulnerability. Hers too._

He had given her a truth. His truth, one of them. A gift. That did not escape her. _It was not enough. She needed to go._

 _He gets a gift, too, then._ She pulled her pants down just enough so that the top of her thighs and underwear were visible, but still high enough to hobble her movements. _He will not like the plan. Take this, then_.  She crawled over his lap.

The shirt was too much and she ripped it, the sound of fabric tearing punctuating the noise of her breathing.  The white of her flesh peeked out from the black clothes, secrets underneath.   _She knew what he saw._

She offered herself to him. A gift. 

 

_Maddening._

He didn’t mean to.

The flesh called him to do it. The sound of his hand on her and the way that the flesh of her ass quivered underneath his slap. _Again._ The sound of it. Sharp. Her little movements.

 _Again._ He heard her catch her breath at the last one. _Again._

But she was so, so good...she’d been so good. He took her to the floor in front of him, moved her to her knees. Gently his fingers traced on her slit, moistening. _Not enough._  Possibly the first day since she had been with him that she had not been in some permanent twilight arousal state.

_He would open her, then._

He bent down and licked her, following the cruel route his finger had tortured her with before, slowly again. He pushed aside the small thong; an annoyance, a puzzle. Fingers rolling her pink clit, maddening, tracing the dusky line to her ass, circling its puckered skin, back down.  He breathed her smell in.  His tongue searched for the right place.

_Found it._

When he felt her cunt start to seep, he got back to his knees and clutched her against him, guided his cock to her soft ass and sawing against it, letting himself thud against the flesh and then slide down and shallowly rub on her lips until she strained to have him, the pants binding her movements.

She whispered, _pleassssse…._

And this time he did not deny her.

He could not.

And as he grabbed a handful of that dark hair and eyes marveled at her smooth white back curving before him and he wanted _this!_ and he wondered at his insanity the day before, a starving man denying himself food. The moment was a balance of desire and release and tender and animal and it broke through them from the force of its own sweet pressure.

He stayed in her, back on his knees and clutching her to him as he felt the seed that he spilled inside of her trickle out and his cock twitched in its perfect resting place, and her moan turned into a sigh.

And he kissed her again and said nothing out loud but looked with clear eyes at the object of his love and pulled her down to the ground and wrapped around her.

  
  
  
_Love._ Those words...from him...Love. Those feelings, in her.  But she had made a decision. She ran the next thing she would say to him over and and over in her head and prayed that she’d get it right.

Minutes later she rose and regarded her lover with clear eyes.

 _She knew what she needed to do_.

“I have to go back to Chicago.”

  
  


Jaqen got up to one elbow; his lips pursed together, his forehead creased and an unfamiliar expression fleeted across his face.  

“Mmmm.”

He stood up, walked by her and out to the courtyard where his control had deserted him.  He sat down and let the sun warm his face, eyes, closed, palms up.  

Arya pulled her pants up, put the ripped shirt back on, feeling it graze below her collarbone.  She took a breath in, and out, and followed him.

“Jaqen.”

He did not change his stance, he did not shift, but he turned his eyes down to look at her. They were remote, like he was steeling himself, gathering himself back up, everything he had given her..

It was her turn to supplicate.

“Jaqen. I want to go with you.  I do.  But I have to go handle my family. Just like you said.  I can’t just disappear right now. I haven’t called them, just keep pushing them off. I have to go untangle this, make sure that they understand without knowing.”

Her bottom lip suffered the indignity of her chewing it. “And I have to make sure. Of you. That we - that this is the right thing.”

He was still silent, impassive, his face like the great stone Easter Island carvings.

“And if it is the right thing, I will find you.”

She got on her knees, she reached for his legs and traced his calves, the fine hairs, a scar on his knee, gold and gold and long muscles. His thighs were open and his cock lay soft reaching down between his thighs.

_I need to think clearly, about him, about us, and I can’t with him, with that._

When he spoke his voice was quiet and resigned. “Lovely girl, a man will be sad to not have you by his side.” He closed his eyes again.

She kept looking up him, a trail of hair leading past his abdomen, the softest skin on his sides, his nipples pink and small on defined pectoral muscles.

She swallowed. “Jaqen.”

He twitched, said nothing.

“Jaqen, look at me, please.”

He did, and it was terrible.  “What does a lovely girl want a man to say?  She has taken everything.”

She bowed her head.

He rose, still not smiling. “Very well. A girl will go. When.”

Arya blinked.  “Jaqen, I will go to Chicago...in a few days. In a day. It doesn’t matter. I will make sure that my family doesn’t come looking for me - and find you instead, and put you in danger.“

She swallowed. “And Jaqen, I need to think about this, about coming back to you. You’re not asking me to go on some _fucking_ vacation, some honeymoon.”

He smiled bitterly. “And if it was, if that was the question? Would a girl come?”

“Yes.” Arya felt a tear creak out of the corner of her eye. She turned to get her suit on, to go and whisper her sadness and confusion to the sea, tell it goodbye.

 

 

Jaqen had never felt lonely, before. The self control that had as late seemed to desert him, piece by piece around her, built up to an armor over years _before her_ he thought _before a girl took it, stole it_ and he he had been able to immerse himself, wholly, into the essence of his job.  The finding of people, his targets, of learning what he could about them, getting into their brain, and then suddenly the release of coldly eradicating them, giving their lives up in a prayer so that the suffering they wrought would stop.  It had not felt lonely, he breathed in and breathed out, moved across the world, and his plans lay before him, uncomplicated by any desires that he might have.

But now he felt a lack, and more keenly after he had made a confession to his lovely girl, that he prized her above all else, and yet _still_ she would leave.   _She took everything._

He looked at the sea ruefully. If he did not see a small white form laying like a raft of kelp, out in the distance, he would go out there himself, the act of floating on the water supremely soothing. A girl had taught him well.

_it is only done without effort because the effort drags you down..._

Very well. He would give this thing up, his precious thing into the world, without the grasping, constricting want.The aching need. His proper density would be restored.

He decided. And again, without clothes - _the time for clothes will come and soon,_ self-deprecatingsmile just touching his lips, and he swam out. _The sea does not choose sides,_ he thought. And he shook his head to will himself to drop the effort, and he found his own small patch of sea a few hundred feet away from her, swimming hard to get to it, allowing the movement to drain his arms.

And he spread-eagled on top of the water, and the sun shone down and cleansed his naked form, waves lapped him, and he felt like he melted into the sea.

 

 

 

Arya had to leave him. She had to. She had to. Sansa and Bran were out in Chicago and they needed to know...something, whatever she could tell them. Needed to quiet them.  Baelish was the one who pushed her father into suing the Baratheons - _what did he know._  Her father could care less about the money. They would never use it. The only person who would have wanted money in her family was Sansa, but Sansa’s husband was richer beyond the Starks, almost as rich as the Lannisters.  It must have been fucking Baelish, fuckinnnnng Petyr Baelish, he knew something, he was involved, and she knew it.

And Jaqen, giving her everything; she knew he was right, she had him, offered to her, the most wonderful prize.  Her sorrow crushed her; she was made of iron, she was an anvil and she sunk, sunk into the ground.  But she had not yet repeated his confession back to him - though she did love him, she knew it. She needed to know that her love would keep. If she left her family, got herself into something too deep to get out of...oh, she needed to know it would keep.

_She needed to be sure of her path._

The sea took her tears, did not judge, held her aloft as she quieted her sobs, so they did not move across the water to where a man could hear them.

 

 

 

Arya moved in staccato.

Numb. Packing. Arrangements made, hastily. _Better to plunge the knife in and take it out, then to let it linger._

A flight to London, late that night. _Why fucking wait. I’ll change my mind. I have to see my family... tell them...something.._ She sent an anemic _Be home in a few days, maybe less_ as answer to Sansa’s latest barrage on her phone.

A few pictures, of the beach, of the villa - _torture for later_ \- she thought.

Jaqen a silent stranger, unknown to her, rigid and closed, a shadow.

Time to go.

  
He understood, he knew, oh he knew.

He didn’t think he’d see her again.

 _LIke if a girl wasn’t here, like if a girl never was_ , he thought grimly, and his blank eyes were unseeing.

  


The sea watched them and mourned.

The yellow jacaranda tree apologized.

The villa was bereft.

The car drove more slowly this time.

  


Jaqen could see her face flash in pain in Barcelona.

He gave a little bit. “We can walk a bit, if a lovely girl wishes. The plane doesn’t leave until almost midnight.” His voice felt like he had not used in in decades but he hoped it was enough to send a message through, a message of little hopes and little whispers.

Not big declarations - they would have toppled his wall, it was poorly built, for show.

She nodded.

  


They parked the car, and walked in the city. Arya trying to memorize the bricks, the shapes.

Her hand. It wanted his. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t mean to.

He froze. And relented.

The most infinitesimal movement of the side of the lips, the small muscles on the side of the face pulling the lip slightly to the side and up: the smallest crook of a smile.

She pulled his hand up, kissed it.

“I just need to handle my family. And I need to know.  I need to know if we’re being crazy.”

“And if we are, sweet girl?” His profile, a glumness.

“If we are…” Arya looked bitterly at the ground, tried to swallow her sorrow, too big for her mouth.  “If we are being crazy, better to break it now. Before it is too real, too big, hurts too much.”

Logic, reason, logistics.

“If a girl wishes to find a man, she can call, for now. The phone is...secure. A man hopes that she will.”  The unshakable focus of an animal before pouncing, eyes locked on hers. Muscles tensed. “A man has said.”

The stranger was gone.

A hopeful tendril shot up slowly, frailly, out of Arya’s heart and up her throat.  

She turned into him, reached for his kiss.  

_A test._

His breath sucked in, and her name exhaled like a mantra and he took her closely to him.

 

Oh the mysteries that can be divined in a lover’s mouth, the emotions that can pass; impatience and longing, anger and need. Sorrow. The sharing of breath, the soft heat, skin betraying excitement, blood vessels opening. A chemical reaction turns into a gift of biology. All senses register in tandem the mystery opening up for them, so as to keep it.  It is too precious to lose.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is what the inside of Arya's head sounds like in this chapter.  ](https://youtu.be/oiomcuNlVjk)
> 
>  
> 
>  


	15. lemons and sunshine and money

  
  


Mercy got on the plane back to London. 

Arya got on a plane in London to Chicago.

She staggered into her room, stared at the ceiling, fighting sleep, mapping out her next possible moves.  And a name went through her head like a rosary, a prayer:  _ Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen _

  
  


The next morning: cigarettes and coffee and her mission. She fumbled with the little black box she had pulled out of Ned’s office, State Department Seal on the back.  The lock, how to open the lock?

In the end she pulled out a hammer and smashed it. Mourned the loss of an artifact that had been Ned’s. The box was the size of file folder, and she aimed for the edge with the silver lock.  

_ Victory. _

She pulled out a sheath of papers.

 

_ Classified. Top Secret.  _ Cersei Lannister.  Robert Baratheon.

 

_ How the fuck had Ned Stark gotten these? _

A copy of a ledger, a list of names, buildings, notes on them; dollar amounts assigned. Baratheon Industries profit margin, construction notes. An email printout: mortars, rockets, their locations, dates to be distributed, names of contacts foreign to Arya.  To Cersei, from Gregor.  _ Gregor Clegane. _  Arya did not know that name.

It was Cersei’s kill list, murder in large degrees, inflicted by rockets, not knives.

She reached for the last Gitane and wondered what to do next. And how much she wanted to bring him these secrets. And her heart beat faster and faster yet it still did not speed up time to bring her to him.

She wanted him, wanted to be with him, wanted to be by his side.  She knew, she knew when she stepped on the plane. Very well, handle the Starks, keep them safe... and hope he would forgive her.

She sent out a prayer, an apology for leaving, and hoped it would make it to him.

  
  


Sansa was comfort, Sansa was home, and Arya almost collapsed onto her when Sansa opened the door to her flat. Sansa’s beautiful face flashed and for a brief moment she wore Catelyn’s worry and anger and relief on it. 

“Arya. You’ve decided to come home.  Are you going to tell me one sentence and then disappear again??  Arya!”

Sansa’s eyes welled with tears, with relief, with that spark from childhood judging Arya for being impetuous, imprudent, defiant and yet jealous that she still landed on her feet.

Arya could do nothing but hug her, and pulled her into the living room.  Bran was in there, and he startled. Arya looked around, looking for Willas.  Gone.

How to...and she gauged her trust in these two humans, and realized that they were her pillars, and that if Jon were here, she’d pull him in, and she would be almost complete. She had practiced what to say, but when she opened her mouth none of it came out.

“I went and traveled with the man that I met on our property, San.”

Bran had no idea what she was talking about, she continued anyways.

“You two. I need to tell you some things. And I need you to listen, really carefully. And do not tell a soul, not one living soul, not a brother or a cousin or a friend. Not Willas.  _ No one. _ Not even Jon or Robb, unless they come and you see them in person.”

She looked at her brother. “Bran, have you told Sansa about your dreams?”

Bran shook his head.

“Please do it, now.”

Horror spread over Sansa’s face as she listened; they had died again, for Sansa.

“Bran...I think...I think you were right.”

She fiddled with the edge of a pillow, a tassel, saw that her fingernails were dirty, out of place.

“Listen, you two. The man I was with...he has information. I can’t tell you how, or why, but he was able to find out some stuff on Mom and Dad. Sansa, do you remember what Baelish said about Dad suing Robert Baratheon?  Do you remember Cersei?”

Sansa had briefly worshipped Cersei, when she had come to Winterfell, until the mask fell off after Joff’s little episode and Cersei’s charms could no longer disguise how distasteful she was. Cersei was cultured and beautiful, and a bitch - Sansa was the last to know.

“That lawsuit against the Baratheons got them killed, San.  Killed because Cersei knew that Dad knew too much about what they were doing.”

Arya’s words tumbled out of her and she marvelled at her earlier resolve, now gone.  _ Sorcery, magic.  _ She realized she needed to put up a wall, and stood up.

“I need to know that you two will not say one word. Not One Word about this. Because you could be next.  And Jon..Jon….”  Jon was in Afghanistan.  Where Cersei was operating. Jon had the Stark name.

 

Jon was a target, too.

 

Arya reeled with the knowledge and she struggled to stay upright, clenching the muscles in her arms, willing her muscles to obey her if her voice would not.

 

She spoke again. “This is going to sound crazy. If it doesn’t, you’re not paying attention. The Baratheons were involved in some heavy duty shit --” It wasn’t enough, how could she say this? “-- and Cersei is helping seed a war, because she’ll make money off of it, off the rebuilding, off the roads, off of ties to the oil industry.”

She swallowed. “And I think Petyr Baelish knew it, too, somehow. And dad knew it, and he would have exposed her, and he died for it.”

She pinned both of them with her gaze, trying to impart the severity of her words. “And if they think we know it, they’ll try to kill us too.”

Sansa and Bran did not know what to say. Arya flashed on how crazy she sounded, how crazy she looked, probably; and she stood and fixed her eyes on them as seriously as she could to show the import of her words.  She had told them as little as she could about Jaqen, she tried to keep him out of the story, was not able, at least, to betray that secret. She couldn’t, she couldn’t.  _ Oh Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen….forgive me for leaving... _

Bran believed her. His eyes regarded her, soaking in the information, comparing it with what he had seen in his dreams, with the story that his subconscious had told him.  It fit. It made sense.  She could see it. She was grateful.

 

Sansa did not believe her words, but she believed her conviction, somewhere in her core - but it was obscured by the strangeness of Arya’s words, of her behavior. Sansa was a series of graceful angles perched on a leather couch, a waterfall of red hair cascading down.

“Sansa. Sansa. Please. Tell me what you’re thinking.  Tell ME, because you can not, you can not tell anyone else.”

Sansa gathered herself. Her voice was low, still like a bell, when she spoke.

“Arya, you just vanish! And then you come back with all of this! This…” she waved her hand, white, graceful, through the air, diamonds breaking the air into little crystal rainbows as it moved. Sansa looked at her, blue eyes boring into her.  She was silent for a moment.  “But you believe it, you think it’s the truth…” she murmured.

She straightened, reached for Arya’s hands. “Tell me. Tell me you think it’s the truth. Tell me if you have any doubts.  Tell me. I need to know, I need to see your face.”

Arya felt tears down her face. She looked at Sansa’s face, looked at her hands, looked back into her eyes.

“Sansa, I do think it’s the truth. And I do think that they’re dangerous.  And I need you to help me.”

Sansa drew steel into her posture, she sat up straight. Sansa was nobility, she was ageless, she was a queen.

 

And she blessed Arya.

“Arya. If anyone, anyone else in the world had come to me with this I’d think they were crazy. But I believe  _ you _ .”

 

Arya almost wept with gratitude. They believed her. They did. Her biggest impediment.  She had allies, now, she had her family and they would help- they would all avenge their parents, one way or another.

 

She pulled out the papers from her bag, papers that Ned Stark had kept - and that Arya had kept as a trump card, just in case she had to beg them, plead with them to believe her.

Motioned to the table, pulled the papers out.

She explained, as best she could.

The plan drew unto itself.

Sansa would handle Baelish. The youngest Stark girl was an irritant to him but Sansa...Sansa had her ways.  Sansa would invite him for lunch. She would flounce, a little bit. Get him talking a little bit about himself, the work that he did.. _.fucking arrogant prick. _ ..and then slowly needle him about the lawsuit.  Not too much..just enough..just enough to make him want more.

Bran would check with Jory, keep tabs on the dive. The dive team in Munising was scheduled to go out in a week or so, if the weather held.  Bran would fly up to meet Jory, make sure that there wasn’t undue attention if they found something.  They all held their breath...finding those bodies, bringing them home...it was a small, small chance.  

Superior cradles her dead, pushes them deep, washes them in clear water, tucks them in ice and holds them tightly.

But there was a small chance.

Sansa and Bran both stared at Arya, and she realized that she’d have to pay back their trust. Just a bit, just a morsel. How to...she had puzzled over the telling, and it was almost too fantastic to say.  She had no point of reference for them. There was no organization to keep them safe. He had no name, no face digitally; he was untraceable.  Their time together was unpunctuated by cameras or phones - really, the only images she had were the few snaps of the villa and the water, sad reminders of her last day.

She wondered if her sorrow hung over those pictures, tricked the light.

She breathed in.

“When I took off, I went to meet my...my lover.  Do you remember when we went to Paris, as kids? Bran probably not - but Sansa, remember the work that Dad did then?  That’s kind of what he does.”

She rushed past their questions, past their disbelief.

“And I’m going to him, and I’m going to travel with him. And he is going to help me find out about Cersei Lannister.”

The moment of truth. 

“But I have to be really careful, about calling you, about getting in touch with you guys.  Cersei Lannister...is everywhere.   _ Fucking cunt. _ She’s dangerous. She’ll kill me, and she’ll kill you.”

“So….” Arya drew a breath in, drew her strength in, drew her hope in…”I need to go to Europe and just disappear. And you need to be okay with that, and not do anything to let Petyr Baelish or anyone, really, know where I’ve gone.”

Sansa stood up from the table; she folded her arms and looked out the window, at the windows of another flat that was probably just as posh as the one they were in. Chicago seemed like an upstart to Arya; she realized that everything had only been standing for maybe a few hundred years, tops.  An upstart, compared to Tangier and Barcelona, even though she had  _ paid more attention to something else, perfect and more ageless _ and she felt herself slightly pulse at her crossed legs, and her ankle moved, just a bit, clenched her fingers, just a bit, misplaced tension.

Sansa. Arya almost shook her head visibly to get back on track. 

“San. What are you thinking. Tell me.”

“Arya, you just came in here and put all of this on us. Just now. Ten minutes ago. And now you’re leaving again?  We can’t contact you? How does this help?  We lost mom and dad, and Rickon, and now we might as well lose you?”  Sansa’s voice started out controlled but wavered and by the end had pitched up.

Arya dropped her eyes to the table. “I want to be with him, too.”

“You can’t even show him to us! We don’t know anything about him!”

“Sansa. I need to be with him.”

Something in Arya’s tone. It was clear. There was no wavering. It bounced around the room.

Sansa collected herself. 

“I’ve never heard you, like that, before. I’ve never even heard you pretend to be interested in someone, Arya. So why does it have to be him?”

Arya studied the tablecloth. Flowers, blue flowers. 

“I’m in love with him, Sansa.”

Bran sat, uncomfortable, the whole time.  He interjected. 

“Sansa. Let her go.”

Both girls startled.  

“She needs to go. She’s not herself here. Let her go.”

Sansa nodded. It was as if Ned Stark had walked into the room and settled a fight between children. Bran was developing some of his traits; quiet authority had been Ned’s trademark, and it was eerie how much Ned’s ghost had just emerged from Bran’s face. 

Sansa tucked her chin, pursed her lips.  She grabbed Arya. Kissed the top of her head. 

Arya breathed her in; she smelled like lemons and sunshine and money, rich, happy. Sansa was a woman; diplomacy; willpower, coquettishness.   _ She’s like a flower,  _ she thought.

Sansa held Arya; always so small, her head came just under her chin when she tucked it. Arya smelled like sea, like sex, like the faintest bit of lavender and pine.  _ She’s like an animal, _ she thought. 

They hugged each other, swaying, and Bran closed his eyes to keep it in, to keep them together.

A text to Jaqen. The first she had ever been able to send. Arya wondered, briefly, if the only thing that changed about the phone was that Jaqen trusted her now. 

“Things are handled here. I miss you, horribly, endlessly. I’m coming to the UK, flying in later. Tell me where to go.”  _ Home. _

Not a minute later. A reply.

“Make sure Mercy comes. Paris.”

_ Ah, the passport, yes of course, she would fly in Europe as Mercy… _

A second later.

“But tell her it is Arya that I want.”

  
  


And she packed her bag, with the feeling of lightness radiating through her feet. The air was strangely soft on her skin, and she felt her body respond to the memory of a million touches, and it was enough to make her flush.  And Chicago seemed young and impressionable, too rational, as she thought of Paris, beautiful, old, wise,  opening up for her and Jaqen, a thread to untangle, the warmth of him, something important to do, to unite them. 

She thought of Cersei and something else moved in Arya, a reptilian motion, a flick in her brain.  

And she considered the Cersei Lannister that she remembered from her childhood, and her cruelty. She pictured Ned and Catelyn and Rickon dead and blue and then she imagined Cersei’s eyes, glassed over, her face contorted and bloody, her neck at an unnatural angle.   _ I will kill her. She deserves this.  _

And Arya smiled, thinking of the taste of blood in her mouth, the sight of it on her own skin.

 

Arya was at the airport and flew to London. 

Mercy flew from London to Paris. When she stepped into the airport she smiled, ready to meet her lover.

  
  



	16. Or is this what a girl wants?

 

The flight from London to Paris only took an hour. It felt like a lifetime. Mercy tapped her foot until the man next to her sighed for the third time.  

Her suitcase, a check of _that_ phone, a text to him to find out where to meet him.  A thrill when her screen lit up with his answer.  A taxi ride to Rue de 3 Bornes.  Achingly, blindingly beautiful Paris flashed past the windows. Her heart skittered with each turn the taxi took.

 

_Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen._

 

The taxi pulled over in an alley; she pulled her suitcase out and stepped out on the sidewalk, firmly entrenching herself _here in this moment._

She captured the memory and locked it in her head. Excitement and fear and revenge and lust swirled around her, all amplified by the streets of Paris.

And then she saw him.

He didn’t rush to her, not this time. Instead he moved languorously, undraping himself from the wall and gracefully stepping to her.

Her face in his hands, and before she could kiss him, _a test._

“Does a girl truly wish to be here, is a girl certain that this is her path?”  His touch and his gaze were gentle, but there was an undercurrent of something else; pain or protection, she could not tell.

“Jaqen. A girl is certain.” It felt so good to smile at him as she said this.

She felt him breathe out and then she locked away another memory; kissing her lover on the streets of the most beautiful city in the world.

He took her upstairs, and she walked into her new universe.

“Jaqen, we’re here...we’re here!”  She moved around the apartment; it was small but airy and sunlit and _very_ Parisian.

“And I want to know, know everything. I brought you something...that may be of interest.”  Gestured toward Ned’s papers, tucked into her bag.

“Something of interest? Will the interest keep until later?” He raised an eyebrow. She fucking missed him, missed his eyes. Missed his arrogance, his slyness. He leaned over her, shrugged her coat off of her.

“A man has just arrived as well, lovely girl. Spain was much less...interesting...without you.” His smile would not leave his face. “A man learned many things that will interest you; we have much to do to prepare. A girl must learn to listen and to see and the stakes are great.”

She grinned, raised an eyebrow.

“You need to teach me, because I’m going to help you kill Cersei Lannister.”  She looked triumphant, transcendent, and there was something dark and sinister in her smile.

 

 

A man almost could not stand the force of that smile and willed himself to move one foot in front of the other. _Control._ A man then let his control and his effort go. The release of it _was_ now his control...

He stood back to look at her and she looked suddenly and strangely shy when the bloodlust faded from her face, watching him. 

And he saw Mercy flash across her face, and the combination of his brazen, wanton girl and sweet Mercy fomented his lust.

 

They undressed and she shivered, sitting on the edge of the bed. She could not help but reach down to touch herself, and his grin was devious as he watched her fingers slip down to the darkness between her legs, watching him watch her; her expectant mouth opening, skin prickling as the air and anticipation caressed her.

He came to her and bent on his knees, taking her fingers away and sucking her taste off of them, and pushed her thighs aside so that he could lap from the source, tease more and more out of her with a slow flicking tongue, hands tracing her legs. _Never enough_ he thought and he pointed his tongue and then softened it to bring her to a quiver, feeling her legs clench.

He couldn’t, wouldn’t stop himself. He was beside himself.

And so he started to tell her:

 _A girl has returned_ he murmured.

 _Does a girl know how greatly she was missed_ he licked her nipple, rolling the point of it in his mouth.

 _Did a girl feel herself in my thoughts_ he traced her breast, feeling the fullness, the heaviness on his hand.

 _Was a girl lonely_ he slowly circled her sex and then covered her clit with his thumb.

 _Does a girl want more_ he added a finger, curling it up to stroke her inside.

 

Arya was getting frantic and she vibrated with pleasure.

 

 _Does a sweet lovely girl need to be fucked_ his voice barely audible.

 

He pushed her down on the bed, leaning over her, pushing his fingers even deeper  inside of her. His other hand was like a vise, pinning her shoulder down hard against the bed.  She was squirming underneath him, writhing when she heard his voice, her eyes almost closed and her fingers grasping at the covers, at whatever she could reach.  He moved his fingers more quickly.  They slid perfectly in her. She was ready. _Ohhh. A girl will beg._ He wanted to hear it, hear her voice...

 _Is this what a girl wants?_  He spoke louder and he pushed her shoulder down even harder as she started to buck underneath him, mewling, syllables pushed out of her mouth with her breath.

 _Answer me._ He withdrew his fingers, put them in his mouth and stared down at her, pinned underneath his other hand.

 _Yes_. Her eyes opened and the smallest word came from her mouth.  

 _I can’t hear you._ He took his wet hand and stroked himself.  

 _YES._ This time she was louder, this time he heard the want and a little bit of defiance in her voice.

 _Or is this what a girl wants?_  He was having trouble keeping his voice steady. He leaned up against her and moved the head of his cock exactly where he wanted it and almost groaned at the sound of it slicking against her wetness.

 _YESSSS._ The word came out with a hiss as she twisted on him, grinding down on him, senseless.

 _Beg._ He pulled back from her one more time and willed the word to come out of his mouth in one cold syllable.

She stopped her movements entirely and reached for his face, widened her eyes and looked up at him.  He watched that problem of a mouth, that hot wet problem of a mouth as it opened and closed; he saw her pink tongue flicker as she answered him.

“Please.”

That was enough.

And he took her small form and bent her over, slipping into her and sawing out; her hair, her ass in front of him, the bow of her back like a bridge and he felt her bloom and close around him.

_Fucking want you want you need you in you fuck fuck_

As the words left his mouth he surged forward and he lost whatever bit of control he had left, his entire core pulsing.

  
  
  
They drowned in the warm soft comfort they’d created until Arya stirred.

“Jaqen. What’s the first thing we need to do? With Cersei.”

He laughed. “Is a girl ready to get started?”

“Well, almost. Not tonight. But tell me.”

“Lovely girl. You must learn, you must see.  And we need to prepare, we need to...change.” Eyes up and down her face. ”A girl must look...more Parisian.  Perhaps just a bit less...Chicago.” She put up a mock protest.

His hands up: “A man must also change. Perhaps the hair needs to be short.”

Arya’s thoughts briefly flashed on how she would continue to guide his head exactly where she wanted it.

He was excited. “We will take tomorrow and the next few days and...acquaint ourselves with Cersei’s life here. We have some information, but nothing is better than the seeing.”

“Seeing fucking Cersei Lannister. I never thought I’d be so excited. _Cunt._ ” Arya expelled the distaste in her mouth as she swore.

He whispered, wickedly, in her ear. “It is said that she lays with her brother.”

Arya laughed. “Of course she does!”

They giggled together a little bit, and Arya trilled like a bird, her chest overfull, her throat slightly wobbly. She wound even tighter into his legs, feeling the slight rasp of golden hairs as she moved.

“Jaqen.” She rolled over, so that she was on top of him, and felt her weight settle into him, legs settling on top of his, arms in a triangle of elbows and wrists, supporting her head so that she could regard his face.

“Jaqen. Hey.”  Her eyes went soft. “I love you. I love you, Jaqen H’ghar.”

 

 

They meandered the next morning as befit the city.

_Like a vacation._

Brioche with jam and coffee at a cafe to watch Paris start her morning.  The call to explore was irresistible; they were captivated by her charms. Soft touches, shared glances, a commonality of purpose. There was a sparseness and economy of speech, because more was not needed.  No need to fill in spaces.

_Like they were on honeymoon._

 

 

As they walked the city, Jaqen posed a series of tests for her.  Different people for her to become. A student.  A housewife. A tourist.  A Parisienne.  At the end of each test, a few blocks or a few miles, he’d critique her work.

“A girl is hurrying, because she’d be late for class. The bag is heavy” -- _it was not -_ \- “the bag feels heavy, and her shoulders ache.”

“A tourist would linger, here; the camera would be out.  Missing the true story of the city behind her.  Caught in the wonder, but struggling to find the meaning.”

“This is your favorite place to pick up your sundries. Too many people, you frown at the line... no time.”

They sat at a small square, watching Paris swirl around them.  Jaqen pointed out passersby and distilled them to a series of essences, of needs, of external forces pushing them. Complicated, marvelously diverse humanity, yes - but the elements of their needs were simple. Jaqen showed her the importance of a shrug, the slight sway in the step of a desirable woman, irritation in the face of a Parisian stuck behind a group of tourists, the blasé look of some of the city’s residents who’d already seen it all.  The difference between a shuffling gait, and one with intention. Someone lost, and someone who knows exactly where they’re going, can weave in and out of the crowd.

“Divine their motivations, and then make them your own, so that you can become someone else.”

Arya walked at that moment very much like Arya Stark with something on her mind. Time to come clean about her family.

“Jaqen. I’ve handled my family...in a way.”

An eyebrow. Those fucking eyebrows. They nailed her to the spot, every time.

“Jaqen. The best way to get them to not chase after me or to make a big ruckus was to let them in a little bit.”

The eyebrow went down, but the eyes got more intense.

“They don’t know...about you, really. But I got Sansa to help me a bit with Baelish. He has a blind spot for her, and she can be pretty persuasive if she wants to be. Especially to a man” -- Arya was briefly disgusted -- “a man like him.”

Jaqen didn’t speak and she wondered if she had pushed his trust too far, made the wrong choice.

“And Bran is helping with Winterfell.  With the divers. And making sure it stays quiet.” She couldn’t say _bodies_. Their bodies, maybe just bones now, maybe preserved by the frigid waters. At the bottom of the lake.

“What about your brother in the Middle East?”

Jon. She felt like she had betrayed him. Jon Jon Jon...she had ignored him, she hadn’t heard from him, Sansa hadn’t either.

“He knows nothing.”

Jaqen spoke, finally, after a pause that felt a few heartbeats too long.

“Very well.”

She could not read his intentions and pulled him to her.

“I wasn’t going to tell them but I didn’t see any way around it. I knew I had to. Sansa would make a comment about me being gone, or _something_ , and then…” she trailed off and made her voice chipper for her last words.  “But now, Sansa’s story is that I’m just a lost little girl, running around on vacation, waiting out the clock for my next semester.   _Silly Arya._ ”

This time there was a bit more warmth in his voice.  “Very well. It may be helpful for a woman like Sansa to take apart Petyr Baelish bit by bit.”

A _woman_? Somewhere, deep inside herself, she bristled.

“And in the meantime, my lovely girl...my devious, willful, carnal girl has bought herself some time, and she won’t feel the inescapable...pull...back to her home. She is entirely an obsession.”  His smile spread across his face. “Yes, very well indeed.”

His acceptance tasted like his mouth and espresso and the heat and slight smell of the Seine as they kissed alongside it.

 

 

 

They’d changed...into someone else. A somewhat torturous afternoon for Arya. Haircuts, clothes. Sansa’s dream come to life. She marveled at the difference in Jaqen with short hair. His face seemed broader; his eyes seemed even more massive. He was dressed in the uniform of a black button down shirt, jeans, black oxfords.

She had her uniform too. Her legs peeked out under a black skirt; her hair was a few inches shorter; mascara and lipstick. Armor, a costume of her own.

Mercy and Jean walked through the streets with the blase attitude of a few expats in Paris. And then they went up to the apartment to begin an exploration of each other, in character.  

  


Cersei Lannister stood at her window, overlooking the bustle of Saint Germain-des-Prés. The heft of a goblet in her hand.  She was waiting. That fucking idiot was supposed to have given her an update; that fucking idiot was late, and when that fucking idiot walked through the door she fairly hissed at him in impatience.

He lowered his eyes, briefly, to deflect.

“Cersei.”

“Meryn. How kind of you to come up to call, so late in the afternoon. I would have thought you’d try to join us at the time we had indicated...a few hours ago.”  She coiled her hand more tightly around the goblet, felt her muscles tense and release.

Meryn Trant was cowed, but only momentarily, and her anger flashed as he looked at the goblet in her hand, the decanter half empty on the desk.

“Did I miss anything, Madame?” The slightest, tiniest bit of impudence in his voice.

This would not do.

“You missed _everything,_ Meryn.” Her steps were purposeful, her head high, a flit of amusement on her face.  She crossed the room, came within a few feet of him, could see his pupils dilate for a moment.  She was, she knew, magnificent, and she moved her back in the tiniest motion to lift her breasts a millimeter higher.  Stupid worm. Stupid fucking worm.  All of them.

“Tell me, now that you’ve decided to make some time for me today, about our little squabbling children in Mosul.”

He cleared his throat.

“Mosul is fine, Mosul is ours. Mosul is not the problem. We’re training men there, and we’ve got what we need on the ground.  We just received another 4,000 Kalashnikovs, a few hundred rockets.”

He waited for a sound, a signal of praise from Cersei. Nothing.

“Afghanistan remains a bigger problem, and Kabul...we continue to work on two fronts. The Taliban haven’t...integrated. The Americans are a nuisance. The supply chain has been disrupted, and the backdoors and trapdoors are...less secure than they ought to be.  The Americans are hedging whether or not to stay in or stay out.  The election this year will be telling.”

“We have another few thousand AKs, waiting.”

Cersei hissed into her goblet, took the wine, savored it in her mouth, felt it roll down her throat.

“The election. Fools pushing forward other fools, sending more fools to bleed.”

“What do you see, _Meryn Trant,_ with your inexorable military vision and keen battle insight?” she smirked. “Where do you see our next shipment being put to best use?”

“The base just west of Kabul. They are completely converted. The people provide us cover, and we’ve already been able to send a few of their children...on missions.”

Cersei set the goblet down, splashed a little bit of it on Robert’s ridiculous overstuffed chair.   _Fool._ Robert had been so tied to his earthly pleasures; he worked for them. He didn’t know that power was created when the earthly pleasures worked for you.

“Well, then, it sounds like your answer is clear, right in front of you. It’s surprising that you haven’t already executed. Get the next run to Kabul. Do not waste any more time.”

Meryn burned inside _\- that bitch -_ he knew what she’d do if he made a single move without her blessing.  He turned and walked out of the room.

Cersei poured a little bit more into her goblet, let her eyes sweep around the room.

When they landed on Jaime, she felt a little ache, delicious.

“I could never tire of watching you work.”  He was draped over the chair, attentive.

Attentive. She liked that. She saw that he was ready.

“Somebody has to do it.”  She gave him the smallest bit of a smile.

She would have crossed the room to go to him, but she knew she didn’t have to.  She took a sip of her wine and set it down again as he made his way over to her and lifted one perfect tit from its lacy constraint, kissed the top of the nipple, and laughed a little bit at her.

Jaime was the only one she’d let laugh at her, but even then, only a bit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this time... it's a gift of a Tywin and a down blanket to lovely LadyGrey81.


	17. sheltered in shadow

_Stalking Cersei._ Arya relished it; sighting a rare, vicious animal. Arya was hungry for her death; Jaqen was amused and aroused in turns by this new bloodlust. They’d eked out a bit of a routine, now, various places in St Germain des Pres, watching to see who came in and out of the Lannister household. Sometimes they sat together, sometimes she was a student, a mother, a lover, a worker. _A test._

The brother, most often, strolled the street. Not the dwarf; Jaqen said that he had been traveling. Jaime. The one that Cersei was fucking. Disgustingly enough, her twin. Golden. Confident. Ugh…

Another man, who always walked up with trepidation and left the house skulking.

Meryn Trant.  A few men that would come with him, in and out, lesser import, still dangerous. Muscle on the ground.

The Lannister sons; twat Joffrey and surprisingly normal Tommen.  Joffrey’s cruelty had a sharp edge to it; it was not tempered with any other emotion, with lust, or with fear. It was blind cruelty.

Jaqen had shown Arya, drilled into her for the past few days endlessly, how to distill down the motivators behind people walking down the street, to guess their hopes and dreams and extrapolate beyond them. Everyone was a different combination of the same feelings and motivators, infinite combinations of the same core elements.  Joffrey was no different; he was an element; he was blind cruelty tinged with the slightest bits of pride, of insecurity, of fear.

And the prize herself.  Arya sucked in her breath. She was really fucking beautiful, just as she appeared in Arya’s memories.  Symmetrical. All angles and curves; cheekbones and breasts.  Her hair was golden and it curled down her back, her form was slender but not delicate. She set one foot in front of the other.  She moved and the air made haste to get out of her way. The sidewalk rose up and cradled her feet.  She moved like she was power and she was. She glimmered, her power emitted from her.

Arya fucking hated her.  As more information came to Jaqen, the extent of her cruelty seemed endless. Suicide bombers in Afghan villages, trained up indirectly through Cersei, through the mechanisms and materiality of Cersei’s power.  Governments off kilter, unable to respond to the non-state actors who sheltered in shadow.  Money flowed through the government, the corps, but none to those on the ground.  

They might as well already be dead, all of them. They meant nothing to Cersei. The sheer cruelty was beyond Arya’s imagination.

Cersei’s appearances were hard to divine. It appeared, and was corroborated, that she did most of her ‘work’ in her flat; she didn’t have ‘friends’ and she didn’t take many business meetings, apparently isolating herself heavily.  Upstairs, alone, with her brother. _Lover._

They could not create a pattern for Cersei’s movements.  They’d have to do this the hard way.

 

Jaqen’s people had some intel on her; apparently she was in town for the next month.  They had some time to figure out the method.  And how much collateral damage they’d inflict around her.   They had noted with glee the prize derived from the information that Arya had pulled from Ned’s keep; Gregor Clegane.  He was Cersei’s man on the ground in Afghanistan, a missing link for Jaqen’s associates.  Jaqen showed her a picture of him, pulled from somewhere online. He was fearsome. Huge, bigger than any man had a right to be. Cold eyes. His essence, his element was wrath but without heat. Inhuman. A machine.

Jaqen’s men started to track him, to gather intelligence.  The fact that Jon was somewhere near this man, in the same country, made Arya’s extremities run cold.  She paced after she saw Gregor Clegane’s picture; prompting Jaqen to get her out of the apartment, walking quickly to will the angst out of her muscles. They walked for hours until Arya collapsed on a bench, ducked her head down and let the blood flow into it, willing what was left of her angst to dissipate and be transferred into her capillaries, distilling it from an icepick in her heart to a manageable haze.

Jon, Sansa, Bran...they had to be handled further.  Just a bit.  Jaqen arranged for a phone to be sent to Sansa, one that they could use more freely. Talking to Petyr Baelish, and what they might find out, was worth it if Sansa could get anything.  Jon was a different matter, and the question of his...observation, of his ability to talk to Arya was delicate.  

Jaqen decided to take the question above his head.

To his surprise, a meeting was arranged.  

The man giving the orders wanted to see one Arya Stark for himself.  Four days from now, in Paris.

 

 

  


For Arya, the experience, their duty began to crystallize and become real, a frightening thing.  She had watched the water, their duty, come up to her ankles - nothing. Up to her waist. Fine. Room still to move.  But now it was getting closer to her head, and it trickled and splashed on her neck, and she started to realize that she had to keep her head - that a wrong move would put her under.

It was starting to seep into their little cocoon of day to day bliss, fucking beautiful Paris, the place where her greatest desire came to fruition with every day spent. Arya was starting to be a bit of a wreck; her fear made her sharper, impulsive, childish.

She demanded that Jaqen give her more tests; the ability to work through his games, to sharpen her abilities to see, to perceive, and to be seen - these things she could master, control.  She needed to find the edges. The amorphous and unsettled nature of what she was about to do disquieted her.

Ticking throughout her daily: the meeting with, _Jaqen’s boss?_ It cemented the reality, threatened to bring a level of bureaucracy, of reporting to the whole plan. Her judgment by this man, terrifying. _What if he sent me away?_

  
  


The day before they were to meet him.  Jaqen’s inhuman zen, his acceptance - _his_ limits were still there, and he needed to bring back her center. Her spark.  Time for something.   A particularly anxious night where her hair was ragged from her pulling it, and her foot had twitched as she read the paper, practicing her French. She had circled the blocks, before, watching the shadows to make sure that none of Cersei’s people were around, trying to divine enemies from shadows.

She was wound, completely, and needed to be unwound before they continued.

He fed her.  The best place to start.

Two glasses of wine.

Election satire. That unholy American election. A discussion, to get her talking, thinking, flashing again - righteous anger displacing the coldness in her belly.  Get her out of herself. She was bigger, she was grander, her themes went outside of herself again, and back into the plane of policy, of theory, of similarities and differences, crudity in the system, the injustice that awaited on the other side no matter who won.

He could tell when the wine had given her flush, the anger had burnt through the ice, and the laughing had loosened her muscles and her mouth.

 

He struck.

 

He picked her up as she was in mid-sentence and carried her to their room.

She protested, but Jaqen placed a hand, gently, on her mouth.

He needed her to remember her edges, needed to concentrate herself again, and most of all pull her strength back into her.

He lay her down, silently, not smiling and not talking, and stripped her, as she accepted the shush.

And then he stripped the bed and with the sheet tied her arms one by one to the bed.

Now a smile, a small one. He couldn’t help it.

“Jaqen…..” she started to wriggle, but he shushed her again.

He tied her legs, corner to corner on the bed, pulling one ankle down, watching as she pointed the toes on that foot, the muscles in her legs becoming one smooth line.

She was spayed out for him, for his taking, all limbs and form.

 _We will help her find her edges,_ he mused.

He undressed.

“You’re..nervous.” He purred, as he fingertipped the lines of her arms.

She looked at him, eyes widely opened, a ghost of desire coming to her face tempered with a bit of perplexity.  “Jaq-”

“Shhhhh.”

He needed to push her to the edge of herself and then let her revel in the taking control, taking it back. He brushed his hands on her hair, across her body and she twitched but did not fight the ties.

Slowly he touched her, and moving up the bed he worked her slowly with his fingers, circling around her nipples- _fascinating to him, sorcery_ \- getting slower and slower until he could see her edge and then speeding up, watching the waves start to lap over her, making sure that he was not taking her too, too close to the edge.

It was a curious metronome, for them, and he held himself in check while he brought her up to writhe, to need, and then back down, always touching, not leaving her bereft.  When he saw her need start to take over, he went to balance her.

He put his index finger into her mouth and let her suck him, gently touching around her throat - a contrast to his cruelty, witnessed by the jacaranda and the Mediterranean. He took that finger and moved down her body, wet heat from her slit, and further until he touched the soft puckered skin around her anus, and slipping one finger in and up he slowly opened her. _Oh lovely girl and your mysteries_  He felt her close around his fingers, as he moved her own wetness from one to the other.   _Mmmmm._ Now a little bit further, and his movements changed from exploratory to intentional, a rhythm, a purpose.

He could see the faintest sweat on her, and her head was rolled back, eyes closed, soft chirps from her mouth, growing, plaintive.

_Good._

He gave it to himself as he took her body into his eyes, up the angle of her, Taj Mahal be damned as her body curved, her noises moving into need and now.

And then he gave it back as quickly as he took it from her.

Two fingers entering her ass, opening it and then slipping his cock into her cunt, a push through and then an open, and the sensation of feeling himself _against_ himself, inside her, and he died, a little bit, as she tried to move to him but could not without her arms and legs.  He watched her face as she climbed and she was fierce and then she came, yielded, and as she yielded he couldn’t he couldn’t and pulled out, watched himself surge over her. A curve, dripping down her, and his noise was less of a groan and more of a gasp as he watched himself do it, victory and lust complete on his own prize.

She was limp, limp on the bed, and he untied her and kissed her, and gathered her soft limbs up and cradled her, rocking slightly.

He had shown her the edges, and that they did not have to break her.

  


 

The day. The day to meet Jaqen’s associate, his elder, whatever the fuck he was.

Jaqen was distracted, sharp - is he actually nervous? She had never seen that side of him.  

She stayed out of his way, allowing it...and fostering her own nervousness.

The meeting would take place at a restaurant.  Apparently, Jaqen’s... _boss?._..would get a private room.

Arya dressed carefully, carefully that day; she was determined to be at once the least and the most Arya she could possibly be.  Heels. A skirt. Her jacket. She thud thudded around the apartment until she had irritated herself, and they made their way across the city to the chosen place.

They walked in through the back - again arranged - and the waiter opened the door.

A man rose, from behind the table.

He was strangely feminine for what was obviously a large bald man; his skin looked soft.  Amorphous, it switched and changed as he spoke. He smelled like lavender. His voice was slightly high, and he suppressed a slight giggle as they were ushered in.

“Sit. Sit. So you, my dear, are Arya Stark.”  Emphasis on her last name. Eyes looking straight into her.  

She bowed her head, the slightest smile.

“And I suppose that you’re wondering who I am.”

The man gave another small giggle.

“Arya Stark, you’ve given us your true name. I knew your father well.”

He made a quick sign of the cross.

“My name, dear girl, is Varys.”

“Varys?”

“Just that, child.”  He had a way of looking at her _\- he saw her._

How to navigate her questions. Arya was discomfited by Varys. Not what she expected. So many questions overlaid by the nails on a chalkboard nervousness. Ned Stark.  She tried to pull from the air a sense of trust or of distrust about him - of anything - but it was as if Varys’ presence had neutralized the very molecules in the air.  Stilled them.

She plunged ahead, anyhow - might as well just ask the big questions first.  “I had no idea that my dad was involved in...anything like this...and I still don’t really know what it all means.”  She tapped a finger on the table.  “What can you tell me?”

Varys pulled his fingers together, gave her a small smile. “Dear girl. So you had no idea?  The cabin, Ned’s time with us?”

Arya shook her head.  

Varys’ eyes narrowed, slightly, his head bowed.  “Good. Ned Stark was active with us quite some time ago, dear girl. He was driven to action when Lyanna died. Your aunt. The circumstances were...suspicious...and when he discovered her murderers, he did as any just and sane human would do- tried to solve it. Tried to get behind it.  Her death uncovered a wealth of information about the Russians supplying arms to Afghanistan. Your father certainly was a most honorable man.”

“More than that, dear girl, I will not tell you. Not now.”

Varys considered. His hands, pudgy, soft...they seemed to float through the air. And his gaze focused in on her again. “Although, it seems that you have been able to get my Jaqen to share many, many secrets with you. Unusual. Let me just say, Arya Stark, that he has placed an inordinate amount of trust in you - enough, might I add, to complicate his duties.”

He stared at her for a few minutes, and Arya got the distinct impression that he was looking through her, penetrating the anger rising up at his words about Ned, the sadness, the fog of tension that she carried with her.  

Unsettling. She looked over at Jaqen, wondered if he felt the small cut that Varys delivered. He was, as usual, in that deceptively languid pose. Arya knew that he could move into a strike incomprehensibly fast if needed...but his default was languid. Aware. Calm. He caught her movement, glanced over, nodded just a bit, just enough.

Arya was emboldened; a little bit of anger pitched her voice. Her father died. Her father - and Varys knew more about his death than she did.

“My father, did he place an inordinate amount of trust in you?” She tried to keep her voice steady.

She failed, and it wobbled like a child’s.

Varys sighed, soft fingertips, nails well manicured, moved through the air before coming to rest. The slightest, faintest smell of lavender in his movements. Traced the wood on the table.

“Dear girl. Your father’s loss was felt by all of us.” He picked his nails up, studied them.  One cheek, one impossibly smooth cheek lifted as he pulled the faintest trace of a smile. “And that is why, dear girl, you are here, correct?  You’ve decided to come in and...how do you Americans put it... _save the day_?”

Arya tried to will herself to sit still; under the table Jaqen could hear a tap tap tap as her foot wicked away the extra energy.  She breathed in, put her palms up.  “If Cersei Lannister killed my father, had anything to do with my father - yes. Actually. I will gladly, gladly be the one to put a knife right through her.”

“Hmm...very helpful.” Varys’ tone was slightly mocking. “Have you ever put a knife _right through_ anything, dear girl?  Shot a gun?”

He picked up the salt shaker, stared at it as he spoke, as if he was holding the most dazzling jewel, as if transfixed.  “Or are you here for _love._ Because of him. You do realize, dear girl, that you are a liability?”

Arya’s nostrils flared, her leg started to move along with her errant, tapping foot and her disobeying finger.

Jaqen moved, finally.

“A girl has played the game of faces, just a bit. She has changed, she has become.  She has done it well. Of course she is not ready in the same way a man is.  Just so. She has covered her tracks, a bit.  A man will keep her safe, in the meantime.”

Varys raised an eyebrow. “How touching.  But who- pray tell - will keep _a man_ safe?”

“All men must die.” Jaqen bowed his head slightly, like he was saying a benediction.

Arya’s foot stopped, her finger stopped, her heart stopped, her cells stopped, the earth stopped.

He looked up at Varys. “That said, a man does not wish to die too soon.  We will be careful, we will ask for protection, and more so for information. We need to know, all of the secrets that you have discovered. We need to reduce the need for Jon Stark to try to reach out, to stop him from making noise.  I assume that we can create a secure network for him to communicate?”

Varys sighed. “Very well. But be careful. Very careful. I’m sure that goes without saying, Jaqen. That Clegane is down there. Jon must be completely unaware of what is happening.” He gestured, the hands like butterflies, the enormity of Clegane drawn out in front of them.

Jaqen nodded, continued. “How much do you know about Cersei’s network?  We have seen only the smallest group around her.  There must be others.”

“She is an interesting creature, is she not?  It’s so...fascinating to watch her come out of her shell after Robert’s death.  Robert’s unfortunate death.” Varys’ sigh, exaggerated, pushed past his soft, thin lips. “There are, of course, always more vermin.  We have some information.  I have asked for some help for you, here in Paris. I’d also like you to keep moving. You can’t just put roots down. We will have another apartment ready for you, first you will get out of the city for a day or two.”

“Jaqen. This needs to be handled. Quickly. You have a dozen targets, plus Cersei. We need to handle this before the end of the month.” The butterflies flew together; fingers locked for emphasis.

Jaqen nodded. “Ah, yes, Moscow, but we have added additional targets?”

Varys’ smile this time was slightly sad. “No, sweet Jaqen. Moscow is not the problem.  It’s not a logistics issue. It’s a moral issue. We have intelligence that she has a cell in Paris, and they are planning some... movements... at the end of the month, very significant ones. So much so that we’ve pulled in French police, we’re sharing information. They would prefer to...handle it...but they are so sloppy. So very careless.”

Varys frowned. “It is past time for you to engage, Jaqen, and Miss Arya Stark - we need you to either become a much faster learner, or get out of the way. You will receive weapons training.  We will take you out of the city for a day or two, at least get you some rudimentary knowledge. You will receive some...protection. And you will be careful.”

He slid a black bag over to Arya; it materialized from right next to him on the seat. She peered in: two small guns, a stiff vest. Kevlar. She felt the blood drain from her face.

“Jaqen.  Ready yourself.”

Finally, Varys gave a smile, but no one in the room believed it was sincere.

“And when you’re done, lovebirds, then we will make sure that you get _a honeymoon._ ”

Arya shivered at his words, and they walked out of the private room, out through the kitchen and into the alley behind the restaurant.

  
  
  


Green silk. Or blue?  She wound her hair back and then allowed it to fall.

Blue.

Hair down.

Simple, a simple necklace.

 

_Oh Arya!_

Sansa had been trying to digest all of the information that Arya had blindsided her and Bran with last week.

Getting Petyr to take her to lunch was fabulously easy. He barely needed any goading, he hadn’t needed a reason, really.  Littlefinger.  She giggled. He had started looking at her like she was a prized pet when he came to their family’s Christmas party when she was 13.  She had felt strangely grown, compelled further to show her flawless manners under his attention.  The contrast with Arya’s awkwardness, her wildness made her feel older, more ladylike - until Petyr’s fawning made her feel...warmly uncomfortable.  Shamed, somehow. LIke he could see through her dress.

She hadn’t told anyone about that feeling - both strange and weirdly satisfying, new feelings trilling up and down her body. Hard to sleep that night.

But now, now she wouldn’t be shamed.  She knew how to get the upper hand.

And today she knew the cut of the blue silk, not the green, on her collarbones would go a long way to getting that upper hand.  She dressed, dabbed carefully at her face with some powder, a little bit of lipstick, the Dior. That color was just too delicious. Apricot? Heels clicking on her floor, she grabbed her bag, spritzed herself with perfume, and smiled at herself widely in the mirror. Narrowed her eyes just a little. _Coming, Petyr, darling._

She didn’t know what Arya had on him, really. Arya left them, left them in perfect confusion, just storming in and out. Honestly! And Sansa didn’t quite know exactly how to get Petyr to spill...whatever it was that Arya thought he had. _Arya!_  She’d been able to talk to Arya a bit, in France, maddeningly receiving no information. She still hadn’t met Jack, or Jaqen, or whoever this mystery man was that had simply compelled her sister to jet off and leave them.

Arya wouldn’t tell her much more. She had said it was for her own good not to know too much.   Asked her to dig around, a little bit, about the court case - when it came up, what they knew about the money, why on earth would her father sue Robert Baratheon, of all people, his oldest friend.  And why on earth would Robert Baratheon borrow the money?

Sansa did agree, though, that it was completely out of character for Ned to have filed a lawsuit. And somewhere in Sansa, she felt another set of strange feelings, although not the same as the ones that kept her up when Petyr Baelish stared right through her dress and into her soul that one day.  

Sansa felt angry, and slightly powerful.

  


Expensive, the most expensive restaurant she could find close to his office. Armed with a smile, gritting her teeth, and flitting like a dancer across the dining room, Sansa saw Petyr stand up to greet her.  Kiss, kiss, each cheek, each kiss lingering just a nanosecond longer than needed.  Sansa put her bag down on the chair, settled in, and then summoned her most dazzling smile.

“Petyr. So wonderful to see you.”

Petyr Baelish’s sharp little eyes looked her up and down, and he touched the hair on his face briefly as he smiled at her.

“Sansa. My darling. What a delight. To what, may I ask, do I owe the pleasure?”

Sansa dropped her eyes conspiratorially.  “I wanted to continue our conversation from a few weeks ago. Alone.  Arya means well, but sometimes she just...doesn’t...understand.  I was hoping that you could give me a more thorough accounting of my parents estate.”

She had him. She knew it! Petyr was not fond of Arya; she was not of the same stuff that Catelyn and Sansa were made of. The pleasure of lunch with Sansa increased exponentially with secrecy of this meeting. She almost shivered, composed herself, reached with a white hand - without the rings - and grasped her water glass like it was a baby bird.  A sip, delicate. A bit of water left on her lip, a drop. She opened her mouth slightly, dabbed the drop away with a napkin.  The soft light of the restaurant shined on her skin, her neck was long, impossibly pale, rising out of blue silk. The hollows at her collarbone softly angled. Red hair that demurely cascaded down her back. Blood and cream. Eyes widening, lashes darkened.

“Of course.” She murmured.  “Please feel free to add this hour or so to our billing. I would not presume to ask you for your advice and then not pay you.” She smiled, beautifully, cocked her head just slightly.

The final stake in his little heart. To get paid for this show Sansa was putting on for him. Petyr was half hard under the table and he gripped his thigh to compose himself.  

“Sweetest Sansa.  Of course. I would offer up counsel freely, but it’s always better when the i’s are dotted, the t’s are crossed.”

He could feel the slightest flush coming up his face, grabbed the menu for a shield.

“Shall we order, my dear?”

Somewhere underneath Sansa’s perfectly composed exterior, inaudible, unseeable, only for herself and her own pleasure, a little giggle pealed, a perfect little bell ringing, signaling her triumph.

  
  


Arya stretched the length of the floor on her back in their apartment. The tension of the day, leaving her. Varys. _That frog_ . _Or was he a lizard..god, I don’t know what he is._

“He’s strange.”  Arya looked up at Jaqen, who was giving her that smile, laughing at her choice of the floor instead of the couch, the smile that would be a full laugh on anyone else.  She was still getting used to seeing the whole of his face. The short hair. He looked so...handsome, now.  But he had been handsome before. _HIM. Whatever._ He was hers…

Jaqen nodded. “Varys is a strange man. He has secrets everywhere.”

“I don’t know if I like him. I don’t know if I trust him.”  Arya raised one leg up, and then the other, tightening her stomach muscles, willing her core to hold her legs still, lowering them down as slowly as she could and back up.  She needed to swim, to move, something...she wanted to get their duties over with, get the growing ball of anxiety and anger out of her gut, stop it from eating her, from coming out of her in little taps and twitches.

“A lovely girl has agreed to obey. At least somewhat. Varys is trustworthy.”

Jaqen stood over, looking down the length of her legs as they came up, the skirt slipping down, the line to her thigh straight, absolute; a scarlet silken panty passing as a slight modesty.  Legs down, skirt crumpled around her thighs, legs back up, skirt around her waist. Movement fluid.

Muscles obeying, core and legs synced. He caught one, brushed its soft length with his hand, palms covering as much of skin as he could.

He mocked her, continuing their conversation. A businesslike tone.

“Yes, Varys’ secrets.  So many of them. He always has the best interests of the people in mind. A girl will trust him. And all of his secrets.”

Arya giggled, tried to pull it from him, and he pulled both of her legs up off the ground, her ass up off the ground.  

The skirt at this point had lost its raison d’etre and flipped up on her torso.

He continued. “It appears we have some business to handle. We will have to pack up. We will get out of the city for a day, and a night, so a lovely girl can learn to handle her weapons a bit better.”

Arya groaned. “Your business…your business...”

Jaqen shook his head, slightly. “This is a girls business as well, now. Varys would not meet with you if it were not.”

She pulled her thighs together; anticipation of his touch heightened her senses and the feeling of her own skin, so soft, a thousand, a million points of sensation silkily brushing up against itself, was enough to deliciously seed her want, knowing that soon... _something_ ….a finger, his mouth, his cock, her hand...would be satisfying it shortly.

An errant thought in her head: _Skirts, eh? Mmmm._

With a shiver she opened her legs and surrendered her own softness, showing him herself, ready for a more definitive satisfaction. She watched him take her in. Want feeding want.

He laughed, softly, at her.

“But this...this is my _secret_ business as well.”  He purred. He moved the scarlet silk away, and regarded the sight of his fascination, eyelids hooding.

“A man’s favorite secret.”

 

Arya did not protest, opened more widely for him, and her pleasure radiated outward into all of her limbs as she received him. _More more more_. His fingers. His tongue. His cock

 

Business, it seemed, could wait.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd because...I'm impatient and forgot to ring the 'chapter's ready' bell!


	18. greyhound shaking the rabbit bloody

 

Arya woke up.  _ Again. _ The room was still pitch black; Jaqen’s even breathing sounded beside her. 

She’d fallen asleep thinking about the next morning.  Varys wanted her to get started immediately.  When they woke up tomorrow morning they’d leave their cocoon and drive out of beautiful Paris to the country to meet with some of Jaqen’s..associates...for her training.  _ Training.  _ To do what? And with who? And then what?

She tried not to wake him, but the thoughts circled in her head and she felt the anxiety move through her in little tremors.  He stirred and as he moved the sweet cloud of warmth around him reached out tendrils and pulled her in.  _ Comfort. _

He brought an arm around her and pulled her body closer to his, hooked a leg over hers so that they were fully entangled.  She sighed and nestled in closer, and he held her even tighter.  

“Jaqen.” She whispered.  “Jaqen, what if I fail tomorrow? What if they want me to leave?”

He exhaled and she felt his soft breath over her face. 

“Arya Stark. A man will never let anyone take you from me.” His voice was slightly raspy from sleep. “And. Also. Arya Stark does not fail.”

His words warmed her like a beam of sunlight and she felt some of her angst slip away. “Why do you always know what to say to make me feel better?”

He mumbled. “It’s the truth. All of it.”

“Jaqen.”

“Mmmm?”

“How is it that I love you so fucking much, Jaqen H’ghar?  Every single part of you. You are me, you are my soul. I really feel like we were  _ supposed t _ o meet.”

He was more awake now and moved his head so that he could whisper in her ear.  “Lovely girl. My soul indeed. You are everything to me.  Do not worry about anything.  This will be done, and we will go.  And if a girl wishes, a man will stop his duties entirely when we are finished with Cersei.”

His voice trembled, slightly. “And then, dear girl, the world is ours. But you - you are mine.”

Those words.  She felt her soul enlarge, felt her chest expand and ache to capture his words, this moment...and felt one hot tear track down her face.  His comfort, his presence spread over her like a blanket.  The wash of anxiety that woke her had dissipated and she felt her limbs get heavy with sleep once again as she wound them even closer to him.

Before she felt herself drift off to sleep, she murmured.  “Yours. And you are mine. I love you so.”

They slept.

  
  
  


Sansa wiped her mouth delicately with her napkin.  They’d been talking about nothing, nothing, nothing.  Chicago summers. Petyr’s new house in California;  _ beautiful, darling _ . Nothing nothing…..and yet, still, Petyr was on the clock.  

She decided it was time to see if she could get this mockingbird to sing.

“So, Petyr. Everything seemed to be in top shape with Winterfell, with the estate, with the accounts.”  

She allowed her voice to rise, slightly; conversational,  _ just a girl who didn’t quite understand..help me understand. _

A smile flicked on his face; one side of his mouth went up just a little bit.  The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but his eyes  _ were _ busy at the moment.

“Yes. Your sister decided not to answer my calls for a while. I don’t know why she was listed as my first contact. But no matter - I’ve got the accounts in hand and we made sure that nothing would...fall off.  Not even the will, dear Sansa, not even the will seemed to interest any of your remaining family.”

Sansa leaned in, a little. She couldn’t help it that she moved her legs, and happened to brush up against him under the table.  _ Such a small space. Very tight. _ She smiled up at him.

“Well, it interests me.”

“That’s surprising, my dear, considering your husband’s...resources.”

She grabbed her wineglass, allowed him to look at the curve of her wrist, of her fingers.  The absence of about $30K in diamonds, the long naked fingers gripping, one finger moving slightly on the stem.

“It is never a bad idea to be prepared, dear Petyr, for anything.  Anything can happen.” She conjured a frown for him; grinning madly inside.  If only she could talk to someone about the insanity of her actions right now. It was terrifically fun for Sansa to  _ completely f _ uck with him.

Petyr summoned a look of sympathy, barely masking a rush of adrenaline spiking through his muscles, nerves prickling.

“Of course. Sansa, darling, I’m always here to help if something comes up.”

She smiled gratefully. “You’ve always been there for us, always.”

“And so I will be, sweet Sansa. How can I help you?”

“This lawsuit...it was really the only surprise that we received from you. It seems terribly unsettled. Can we get the paperwork? If the Stark family is suing someone, we need to know just a little bit about it.”  She tread carefully, took a slow sip of the wine.

He watched her mouth as she swallowed. Thought about her mouth, those lips, inside her mouth, her little pink tongue….

“Ah, yes. Your father...such a good friend to Robert Baratheon. Really didn’t want to sue him, initially. But for you, for your family, I convinced him it was in his best interests to bolster the Stark legacy.  It was too much money, improper.”

Sansa made just as pretty of a frown as she could.

“I just don’t understand...why would Robert Baratheon need the money? His wife’s family…”

“Cersei’s family had it, but the  _ Baratheons  _ were broke. Apparently it was for a business dealing that they wanted to branch into.”

“And they turned to my father? Not a bank?”

“Oh Sansa. There are some things even a bank won’t finance.” Petyr’s laugh was low.

Sansa didn’t want to push her luck. But she couldn’t help but ask one more question.

“Poor Cersei. I always thought she was so beautiful. How is she handling Robert’s death?”

Petyr’s smile didn’t even try to look innocent.

“Cersei will always be fine, Sansa. Besides, her brother is supporting her through her grief.”

He smirked, and took a sip of his own wine. “We really should make this a habit, my dear.  You’re such a lovely lunch date.”

His hand crept closer to hers, a spider moving closer, until his fingers creeped onto hers.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, just a little, to still her revulsion.

“I’d love it.”

  
  


The car Jaqen had rented made its way out of Paris traffic and into the suburbs, and finally into fields and forest. They were headed to a chateau south of Paris in some village in Bourgogne; it would take them a few hours to get there - although Jaqen appeared to try to minimize the length of time they were in the little Renault. As they moved into a more heavily forested area, trees zoomed by and they took smaller and smaller roads, the car ferociously straining to keep up with demand for more and more, Jaqen from time to time patting it fondly. Arya’s hands sunk more deeply into the side of the seats.

As ever, Jaqen’s posture radiated calm; he sat back, watching the road, one hand lightly on the wheel as objects grew closer and then flashed by. 

She would smack him, but she didn’t want to die. Not today. 

Finally Jaqen turned off down a wooded driveway that curved and curved again. Seclusion.

They pulled up to the chateau; a two-story house with a gravel walkway; several outbuildings, gardens walled in the low stone fences.  A hedge in front. It was beautiful: a country house, no castle.  There was no one else in sight, no one else for miles. The woods crept up to the east side of the house and a small path drew Arya’s eyes, nudged a ripple of nostalgia through her, palpable.

She hadn’t realized the lack she felt, the lack of branches above and twigs underfoot and the sodden green fertile smell of leaves on the forest floor.  The privacy afforded by forgiving trees, covering secrets, the light shining almost chartreuse through the canopy.  

Jaqen put a hand on her shoulder as she started towards the woods, and then pulled her close.

“A girl must have control. Do not wander; not until you have surveyed the land, understood what the next duty is. A girl will obey.”

Jaqen looked at his girl as she regretfully, dutifully came back in line, a good little recruit. He pulled her to him, a kiss on her head, breathing in her hair, the smell, and they walked into the chateau.

Arya’s stomach clenched, a little fricassee of anxiety fluttering around her.

 

Inside.  The foyer, tiled floors, soft cream walls. Jaqen moved quietly into the house and Arya mimicked his footsteps. Voices. They followed them into a dining room.  Spread over the table were laptops, papers, maps - and Gaani looked up and a broad smile split his face, his teeth dazzling.   A woman, slight and severe, sat with him and she stood, no change in her cold face, as Arya and Jaqen walked in.

“Jaqen. My brother!” Gaani and Jaqen embraced. “Arya. Welcome. I hear you’ve had quite the trip already; you’ve met Varys.”

Gaani reached for Arya’s hands, squeezed them. His smile made it to his eyes, cut with a measure of curiosity at Jaqen’s folly.

The woman stood, reaching for Jaqen. She was terrifyingly thin, whipcord and bones. Polished granite exterior. Her hair, sandy blond, reached her shoulders.  She said nothing to Jaqen and then then turned to Arya.

Arya felt the woman’s gaze probe her up and down, like she had been scanned by a laser, found defective.  The woman looked up, didn’t try to create a smile. Watery blue eyes. Lips stretched thinly. “So  _ you’re _ Arya.”

Arya pulled a smile, straightened, hairs bristling at the back of neck.  _ Enemy? Friend?  _ She raised her head just a little; even she was taller than this little miserable waif. Arya pulled her Starkness out of her, willed the facade of pride to stiffen her muscles.

“Welcome. We have the press set up if you want some coffee. I understand you met with Varys...things have complicated, Jaqen, while you’ve been in Paris.”  Gaani smiled, a little, sensing the tension in the room. “We have some work to do. I’ve got information, Jaqen, we need to spend this time well. Many, many moving pieces right now. Time is short.”

“And I’ll be training _ you.”  _ The woman might as well have spat the words out. Slight British accent. Cold low voice. Her form resonated with the power of someone in restraint, a rubber band pulled tight.  Her gaze was clinical. “Since you come to us, come to this house, without any knowledge of how to protect yourself.”

“Kate. Kate. Kate.”  Jaqen gave a small smile, but it did not transmit any warmth; a courtesy. He addressed Arya. “Kate is one of the few women that work with us; she joined us a little bit after I did.  She is incredibly skilled. She will teach some self defense more suited to your size.  She’s a deadly weapon, and you have a lot to learn from her.”

Kate’s eyes followed Jaqen, and Arya could see them focusing in on his mouth.  _ That mouth is MINE, _ Arya thought, _ and anything else you’re looking at.  _  Jaqen dismissed Kate, smiled at Arya.

“Go now, girls - we must make the best use of this time.”

Kate gave the slightest bow, turned and stormed past Arya, who followed.

The women went outside.

“So you’ve never even used a gun. And yet you’re here. Why are you here, _ Arya _ ?”

Apparently Kate was wasting no time. She radiated dislike of Arya.  Arya wondered briefly if Jaqen had ever fucked her, if this was how he had maintained his  _ release _ .

Arya pulled her courage, tried to take the upper hand.  “My parents were murdered.  I want to help Jaqen take down Cersei.”

As she said the words she realized that she sounded like a child. Upper hand, fail.

“If we took in every little orphan to help them get vengeance we’d just be running the world’s biggest orphanage, and all of us likely dead.  Why are you really here.  You must be really fucking Jaqen stupid for him to allow you to tag along.”

Arya’s lips were steel, an iron line, impermeable, a gate keeping back an army of insults.  Since the words couldn’t come out, her cheeks flushed with the indignance.  _  A girl will obey a girl will obey. _

“Well, you’re here, so I guess it’s my job to make sure that you’re not completely incompetent, to make sure that you don’t get  _ your  _ Jaqen killed. Come. We’ll start with the guns, then work on hand to hand.”

Arya nodded and followed her a few hundred feet past the house to a wooded area, set up with some crude targets.  The waif handed her a gun without a word, a pistol, cocked her own, and shot at the target. Right in the head. She stood back, self satisfied. A dare in her eyes.  _ Prove yourself, stupid girl. _

Arya’s bullet flew close, but missed it.

The waif curled her lips in a triumphant smile. “Oh yes, you’ll be most helpful, I can see.”

She grabbed Arya’s arm roughly, moved her into position; there were going to be little bruises on her arms later.

Arya tried again, hit the target roughly where the legs would be.

“Oh, much better, yes, we’ll make them limp.  And yet you were special enough to meet Varys?  I wonder what he thought of you. I wonder if he thought you were special.”

Another shot from waif, straight through the head of the target.

“You need to open your eyes. Steady now. Come on, show me you’re good for something besides getting fucked by Jaqen.”

Arya’s anger peaked; she was still controlling her mouth...oh if only Jaqen could see the incredible amount of control she had at this moment. She concentrated on the target, on the gun, willed her anger to guide her shot.

In the heart of the target.

“Hmmph. Well that took long enough, and you’d be dead if we were shooting at real people, but yes, dead girl, you got him in the heart.  Again.”

They continued.

 

 

Inside Gaani spoke quietly to Jaqen over maps.  There was a lot of movement and their net had widened. Gaani and Kate would be joining them in Paris; they’d be living together. 

Jaqen wondered, a twitch of unpleasantness, how a lovely girl would like this...her proclivity towards walking around in the house without a shirt, her fondness for splaying out on the kitchen table and on her knees on the floor and up against the walls...wondered how she’d like this. 

He focused. And for the slightest moment, he throbbed as he wondered how  _ he’d  _ like this.

Cersei, it seemed, had some trouble keeping her people in line.  Her lackeys - those closest to her and those that Jaqen and Arya had followed, trailed, noted their habits - were the tip of the iceberg.  There were more, but they were ISIS-connected and did not communicate with Cersei directly. No phone logs, no emails. She did not have control. They had to open their net wider and had come up with a handful of names, places.  The first job back in Paris was surveillance of these six men and two women, plus a handful of brown eyed children complicating the job.

Mosques and markets, they’d have to completely cover them to succeed.

Gaani looked at Jaqen. “My brother.  Are you up for this task.  Are you present enough for this?” His question was not unkind.  An observation, a concern. “I have known this man for many years, and never have I seen him so distracted. Varys is worried, even.”

Jaqen smiled, a little sadly. “A man has never failed before. You are correct. A girl is most distracting, I agree. But this is my duty. It may well be my last one.”

Gaani’s eyebrows went up, and seeing nothing else come forward from Jaqen, he turned back to the papers at the table, putting a hand on Jaqen’s shoulder.  “You will keep yourself safe. And you will remember where your duty lies, for now.”

It wasn’t a threat but a sad reminder, one never given before and one never received before. An alien transmission. Duty was always absolute, before, the only thing stretching in front of them, a white plain with no end.  This, this was an oasis, tempting Jaqen off the path, sensory pleasure interfering with the need to continue to the end. The two men said nothing else.

They continued to work.

  
  
  


Arya was now hitting the target every time. The waif was never satisfied, picking out problems with her stance, picking out problems with her arms.  After a dozen hits to the head, Arya flushed with pride:  _ fuck you _ .

The waif decided to take the training to the next level.

“Of course if you have the luxury of standing still and aiming, you’d better be able to take off their head.  But most of the time, we’re moving, we’re on the run, and you’d better be able to take off the right head.  Now move, you’re walking at first, like a little child, have to learn to walk and shoot.  Now. Show me what a sweet little orphan can do.”

Were Arya’s teeth still there? She didn’t know, she had ground them down so tightly, her jaw began to ache from the pressure.

They continued their training.

 

Dinnertime.  Nothing special, some prosciutto, cheese, bread, salad. Sparkling water. Arya would have taken a glass of wine, a bottle, to wash out the day’s humiliation but none was offered.  _ A girl will obey.  _ The house was locked completely and the cream walls flickered with the warm light of a few lamps. Beamed ceilings bounced the light back down; the corners of the rooms remained pitch black.  The house smelled like hay and a green scent; herbs, sharp. The night outside pressed in. Black. Crickets. Alive.

Gaani was the peacekeeper.  Gaani, Gaani, treating Arya as politely as he had in Barcelona.  He was interested in her, deferent to Jaqen’s wishes, but curious about her.  He had a natural diplomacy, a good nature, he was able to somehow keep the room from imploding by questions that felt right, that were relevant but not painful.

Arya sat silently, grateful for the night noises of the woods outside the window, a familiarity.  Oh to walk outside right now, to sit out there.   _ A girl will obey.  _ She wrapped herself around the noise, brought it inside herself, compressed it to keep it.

Gaani kept the conversation moving as both Arya and the Waif sat sullenly.  The Waif would pipe up with some factoid or correction to Gaani; to Jaqen she was more softly sullen, and Arya could detect her want for him, covered by a veneer of cold professionalism.  The waif chewed mechanically, her movements robotic, precise; every move the product of programming, of training.

 

 

 

After dinner, Arya and Jaqen went straight up to their room. Arya flopped on the bed.  The strain curled up in her belly, cold, and the tension imploded on itself instead of radiating outward and releasing - Jaqen could see her discomfort, could hear it in her footsteps, read it in the set of her shoulders. 

“What did a girl think of her teacher, today?”  He gave a small grin to try to tease it out of her.

“That _ fucking _ waif-cunt?” Arya spit the words. “She’s a fucking joy. A real people person. I can’t wait to have her in my face every fucking day. Are they really coming back with us to Paris?”

Arya curled up in a ball, looked at him. “Did you sleep with her?”

Jaqen hesitated a millisecond too long, and Arya had her arrow pulled back in the quiver.

“You  _ did _ .”  A hiss, release.

He raised his hands in protest. “No, lovely girl. I did not. Much to - what does a girl call her - much to the _ Waif’s _ chagrin.  Her jealousy of you is written all over her face.”

Arya felt jealousy, possessiveness, anger. A small spark of triumph, tiny, not enough to burn through the rest. “You are mine.”

She stood up.

_ “You are minnnnne,”  _  she said again. Her eyes were cold. She pushed him over to the bed, pushed him hard. She roughly took his shoes off, his pants, his underwear. He tried to help with the shirt but she slapped his arms.

“Mine.” She finished undressing him, stared at him up and down, a slow gaze that went from his feet to his face, focusing in on the visible hardening as he watched her gather her power. 

“ _ These _ ….are mine.” She slapped his legs. 

Walked around the bed.

“ _ This _ ...is mine.”  She kissed him roughly, biting his lips hard, holding him down as he tried to come up and reach her, to pull off her shirt. 

She pushed and reached down and marked him with her teeth, carving down his throat, a small bite at each nipple. He winced. She was biting hard, her sharp white teeth leaving little marks in their wake.  She was still dressed and he felt the contrast with his nakedness. Her control, her anger, was making him insanely hard.  He grabbed for her, she slapped him again, summoning her force, the noise of her hand hitting him sharply resonating in the small room.

“No.”

“I have been under her crazy jealous eyes all day.  And she’s going to live with us in Paris?  And if you didn’t fuck her, what in the hell have you done to her to make her so fucking batshit crazy.”

“ _ That _ girl has wanted a man for many years.” Jaqen shrugged on the bed. “Just so.” He started to sit up.

“NO.” Arya slapped him again, this time on the face.  A shock to Jaqen. “You are mine. You will obey. A man will obey.”

  
  


_ Oh…. _

As the blood rose to all of the little hurts Arya had inflicted on him, his cock rose, straining for her, a surge of pressure. _ Oh oh oh… _ . He looked at her with cold eyes.  He could play this game, too.

“Does a girl intend to beat a man senseless, or does she have something else in mind?” He arched an eyebrow, his hand moving towards himself, he couldn’t help it.

_ Thwack. _

“Did I _ say _ that you could move?”  The words had to hiss past her teeth to get out.  She shrugged  out of her shirt, a gray silk bra still showing her nipples, peaked.

Jaqen wanted one of them. Stilled himself. 

He looked at her arms, little black and blue bruises, the Waif’s finger marks dotting them.

She pulled off her boots. Peeled her jeans off. One leg. The other. Her underwear. The bra remained, a gray banner claiming her body for herself.

Her voice was low, a mixture of fury with a drop of lust.

“Out there I will obey. But _ in here _ , a man will obey.  _ Do.You.Understand. _ Or do I have to make you understand?”  She gripped his cock, hard, bent her mouth and nipped the head.  She was pain right now, she did not mean to give pleasure but he took it anyway, pain juxtaposed with his want and it was maddening. He started to speak.  _ Thwack. _

He continued. He had to. “A girl will remember that we are not alone.” A whisper.

Even more infuriating. _ What had they heard.  _ Her blood, everywhere, swelling her out. She was electric, she vibrated, she was dangerous to touch, an arcing spark would emanate from her.

He could see that - in a more rational state- she’d be so easy to conquer. Her want was visible to him.  _ It’s right there. And all I need to do is reach it. _ He could smell her. Maddening. Clenched his muscles and they stood out in relief on his body, the flat planes pressing up against his skin. 

He would make her come despite herself, despite her own restrictions. A challenge. He twitched.

The movement caught her eye like a cat’s perception of a rustle.  She focused on it with the same precision and single-mindedness.

“Does  _ she _ want you?” She stroked him slowly.  The cat would play.

“Does  _ she _ want this?” She took his cock into her mouth. He could feel the anger in her mouth, a different rhythm, a more insistent pressure, teeth less careful, the shock of their contact jarring against the fucking perfection of her mouth her mouth her tongue  _ ahhhhh _

_ Control yourself.  _ Jaqen remembered himself with effort.

“It seems that  _ a girl  _ wants that.”  He pulled his most insolent smile out.

_ Infuriating.  _ Her intensity automatically notched up.

_ Control yourself. _ He bucked his hips up, surprising her, to get deeper into that mouth.

Little drops of blood from where her nails had cut into his thighs.

She removed her mouth, little teeth nipping a goodbye.

_ God…. _

She moved above his face, pinning him, and he could see her, her cunt too close to his face to see her body in full focus, her face unblurring to reveal cruelty as he moved his eyes up.  He tried to see if his tongue would reach.

It did. Pointing into her and then softening to take her, and pointing around her clit. The sparks. Her entire body tautened and then melded.

It broke the smallest chink in her armor and she allowed the pleasure, grinding on his face, still pinning his arms.  Her taste overwhelmed him.

She couldn’t take it anymore and slid back on him, straining herself with the effort as she fucked him, no slowness. To stop the bed from betraying their actions she shifted her movements on him, controlling with her core, different places found.

He felt himself become huge, everything in his core concentrated on the sparks that he felt along himself as she slid down him.  He could see her pleasure start was so close - the drawback of water on the shore before the tsunami overtakes the land - and he suddenly arched up to meet her as hard as he could. 

And the sight of her face surrendering and her small body reacting to the unexpected movement, the feeling of being even more deeply in her was too much and he clenched his teeth and came with a sharp strangled growl.

She still did not give herself to him afterward, she had not yet vanquished the anger.  She stayed upright on him, panting, not meeting his eyes.  But she was malleable. He pulled her down, spooned her, let her have her privacy, let her face register her emotions without his prying.  As she exhaled the tension out, bit by bit, he started to stroke her and gently touched her, then more insistently bringing her to a softer, second orgasm, just his fingers to consider, just the pleasure of them and nothing more complicated, feeling her squirm and then shudder.

Then she was sated, and they wrapped around each other, and slept.

  
  


 

The next day they gathered at the table.  Arya had scrubbed her face, put her hair in two braids - the smallest nod to the Ojibwe blood in her, she would draw from their calm today.  Gaani laid out their plans for the day.  He and Jaqen would continue to strategize; the Waif and Arya would continue their gunwork and move to hand to hand combat.

The waif’s face, impassive up until this moment. A smile stretched.

As they left the table, Jaqen pulled Arya and whispered to her.

“In the fighting, do not allow Kate to take you. She expects to beat you bloody. And she will. Be aggressive, right away, with anything you have. Remember.  _ A girl will obey. _ ”

Arya’s heat from last night crept back up.  Oh...in this...a girl will  _ gladly _ obey.

Arya pulled longer strides to catch up with the waif, and they disappeared into the back forest.

  
  


The Waif  watched Arya walk up and looked away as she came within ten feet. The morning sun filtered in, skipped off the fields, carelessly brightening strange angles around them. The air heated: August. It would be hot, soon, but now the morning gave them some stamina, an optimism.  The house watched from afar. 

Arya could see the Waif’s muscles tense slightly as she drew closer.  Arya had walked up in that lazy, American way - long strides, some muscle behind them but they were just pulled, lazy..they didn’t push…  Infuriating, for the waif. No discipline….Irritation rolled off her in waves, palpable.  Her feet were spread in a power stance, and she was gathering.

Her low monotone voice lulled through the distance to Arya.

“I really enjoyed listening to you and Jaqen last night.”

It was not the action that surprised Arya. It was the sheer grace of it.  The Waif’s movement, her body one line cutting through air, a cruel ballerina, a greyhound shaking the rabbit bloody.

Arya moved back. Not fast enough. A comet crashed on her torso. The burning hit her ribs, the impact pushed her back, the trees blurred as she tried to grab something, something, even if just with her eyes. 

It was only a heartbeat later, a cruel natural timing, for the next sentence.

“I really liked to hear you fuck him. That was you, doing it, right? It didn’t really sound like I thought it would. I listened. Did he enjoy that?  I couldn’t tell. Don’t think so. Does he enjoy you? Arya Stark?”

Another strike. MISSED! Arya rolled out of the way and her eye flashed on the Waif’s leg, planted as a counterweight to the swiftness of her upper body.

Furious. Overpowered. Fuck. Arya kicked that leg as hard as she could, with the awkward leverage she had on the ground, with that great throbbing in her ribcage.

It was enough to shift the Waif’s center of gravity, enough to give Arya a chance to move back a foot, and then take another few inches at a time as her…. friend?... enemy?.... moved back into position, drawing her arms and legs closer within herself as Arya scrambled backwards, getting out of reach of that arm, that Howitzer of a girl.

Arya shook herself a little, willed the pain to come faster, roll through her. _ If it hurts enough, it will burn itself out, _ she thought, and she looked up at the waif’s unholy smile, her cocked head like a bird, a robot, her muscles clicking into themselves.

“I wonder if you used up all of your anger, last night, Arya Stark. It seemed like you were mad enough at me, last night. I guess you used it up a little too early.”

She was relentless, she came like the tide and they grappled, with Arya only standing her ground once or twice, until after a particularly brutal trouncing Arya shook her head and walked back toward the house, blood streaming down her face, her ribs tapping out Morse codes of pain with each pulse, each step.

“You’re not worth it, not worth it at all.” The waif sniffed as she walked past, and the register of that cold robotic voice went tremolo for the last few syllables.

 

 

 

It was unwieldy, big; meant for a large man.  Some straps useless, failing, flapping off to the side. The orange had faded, but just a little.  Toluylene dyes keeping the last bit of resistance to Superior, the orange defiant, clinging to life even as the life jacket had failed its purpose, coming up empty.

Blistered through the front of the jacket, a hole, edges singed, clean and neat.

A bullet hole.

Jory’s weathered blue eyes watched Bran consume the information, come to a hypothesis,  and then pack it up in himself.  Bran held the lifejacket, closed his eyes and for a moment to Jory it seemed as if the world came to a point on top of Bran’s head.

They idled the boat for a few more moments, looking down mutely.

Bran sighed and turned back to the engine.  _ Enough.  _

They moved over little waves, back to where the shore waited for them.

  
  


 

 

Cersei had tried.   _ Beasts.  _

She had tried to corral the beasts.  She had offered plane tickets. Money. More money.  None of it worked. Fools.  They would listen to no one. Trant was useless as usual.  

The beasts, the useless beasts were busy getting ready to wreak their havoc on the streets of Paris, and apparently nothing that Cersei could offer them was a good enough trade for men that had already mapped their way to Paradise, with the blood of infidels tracing the way. 

“It’s too much. It’s too much, and it’s too close. What if we tell them that they’ll damage the chances for rest of their movement?  We can withhold the next few shipments to Kabul...”  She paused, thinking, thinking..pacing.

Her eyes narrowed into slits of green.

“Ah, but they are already armed.  They think that their cause is the greatest. Cersei, love, you’re in too deep now.” Jaime spoke carefully.

He ran a hand through his hair, weighing her. Cersei. His other half. His love. She had always straddled the edge, created her own version of reality. It was heady stuff, intoxicating when they were younger. The last few months it felt to him like watching an animal,  tangling herself deeper into the trap even as she tried to escape.

He still loved her, loved her deeply. Tinge of sadness now, of worry rising up, cold at the back of his throat when he looked at her face in the throes of its cruelty.  Jaime found himself running his hands through his hair more and more often.  

The past few months of freedom from Robert’s dim eyes and emotional, fatuous displays had sated him physically. They fucked and fucked as if they were teenagers again. Even now, tens of thousands of fucks later, she still fascinated him; he could see her ankles cross in a certain way and he’d find himself straining, focused, hard.

Cersei Cersei. Sister Cersei, Lover Cersei...

This...though..It was eating at her, eating through her. Her body was hollow, filled with the blood of those she had killed...never enough.  The cruelty had always been there, but now there was no check, no propriety, and she ballooned out, cruelty and blood wrapped up in soft skin and glittering teeth.

Jaime sighed, grabbed her to will the horror away, his and hers, and he clutched his Cersei close, pulling down her stomach and back up, feeling her body start to respond to his touch as he made it more and more intimate. She was curling around him, starting to. 

She moved up, kissed him, and the emeralds in her eyes started to mist over a little bit when she stopped, pulled from his lips and considered him. 

“When they do attack Paris, then, we’ll know when, and we’ll stay here, the children too, stay together, in here. We’ll be safe, safe from those beasts, safe from those monsters, and we’ll be together..”

Her voice was low, melodic, the last consonants clipped in her mouth, but she shuddered as she spoke.

His heart broke. Again, again, she broke it over and over, and he tried to put it back together for her every time. 

A surge of passion, of tenderness went through him. He drew her close. 

“Fuck everyone who isn’t us.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of action..and not just with J/A. 
> 
> hope you liked the waif's return. I think she's such a fascinating character...I always write her with a mix of revulsion and pity. hope she does the trick for you here.
> 
> as always, one million thank you's to ladygrey


	19. a macabre ballet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *warning graphic violence*

 

Footsteps interrupted Jaqen and Gaani’s planning, and they looked up and saw Arya’s blood drip and drop on the floor.  Jaqen’s eyes widened as he looked up to her face. Her face. Her lip bleeding, her cheek bruised, scrapes on her arms.

He felt himself build, and allowed himself to rise as the magma did inside of him, heat of possessiveness, of protection moving through him.   _She was supposed to be trained, not beaten…_

“Did you bring me to her so that she could kill me, Jaqen? Fucking…”Arya mumbled, her mouth too sore to form the words properly, and she lurched towards the sink, splashed water over her face, grabbing a napkin and pressing it to staunch the blood.

Jaqen enveloped her gently, and pulled her over to a chair, kisses like soft butterfly wings, fingers tentatively tracing around her face, her beautiful face, now bleeding and bruised…

He tried to control his voice but in it was a steel that she had yet to hear.

“A girl was supposed to be trained. Kate would make you fight, yes, but the goal was not to beat you into a pulp.”  His stomach twisted _– if this would happen at the hands of a friend, how would a girl look after their enemies got ahold of her_ \- he kissed the top of her head.  A blessing, a taking of the pain. Gaani was checking her limbs, asking her to move them, quietly.  “Gaani, take care of a girl for a moment.”

Jaqen barely felt the ground as he stalked outside to where Kate stood, stiff. He pulled his muscles straight, posture unforgiving.

“Exactly what was your objective there, Kate?”  His voice was barely above a whisper but it sliced through the air.

“Have you forgotten who we are fighting? Have you forgotten exactly again why you are here?  What exactly you were told to do?”

She held a staff, was moving it smoothly through the air.  He grabbed at her wrist, pulled it, tightly, limiting her movement; no escape from his terrible gaze, no escape from eyes that could see into her jealousy, into her anger, into her shame at her lack of control.

“Why did we bring you here, Kate?” His face impassive, a stone statue, the planes unmoving.

When she did not answer he pulled her wrists up, the staff dropping. He moved her to an uncomfortable position; she could not twist out without pulling her wrists unnaturally.

Jaqen’s anger crested and he could feel his muscles tighten, his veins spread his anger through his body, singing through arteries, carrying through.

“I’m asking you for the last time to explain yourself.”

The Waif looked up at him, opened her eyes wide.  Her fever had broken and in its wake was shame, shame.

“I’m sorry.”

A low, monotone voice.  A quavering. Her foot moved, slightly, pushing aside a piece of grass, wishing to walk away, to hide away from her actions, her nakedness.

“Jaqen.  I don’t…I didn’t mean to do that.  I couldn’t stop. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” A truth. “I don’t understand why she’s here. I don’t understand how you could bring her here, bring her with us.”

Her failure, her loss of control mortified her, sunk into her stomach like ice, her limbs like ice _…what had she done…._

No mercy. Jaqen felt a distaste in his mouth, a disdain for this woman, this woman that had been possessed by herself; the very lines of her form made him angry.

“Are you jealous of Arya? Have I ever, ever, given you cause, a reason, to be jealous? Have I ever, ever, in the years that I have known you, ever given you a sign or a signal” - here he threw her hands down roughly, disengaged her as if the touch was distasteful to him - “that I would take you for anything beyond my colleague?  Have I?”

His voice rose from a whisper to the hard edges of a man trying to control his anger.

She shook her head, mutely, chastened, humiliated.

“You’re not supposed to do this, Jaqen, you’re not supposed to fall for someone like her.”

Her final truth exposed. Her body wilted.

The disdain did not leave him, but pity crept in at the miserable sight.  He sighed.

A declaration, unwavering.  “Arya Stark is mine.  She is a part of me, and you will not ever again compromise her safety or - if a man can remind you - the safety of our mission with your pettiness, with your jealousy.  This is not for you to decide or to judge.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, and the Waif stood there, fingers feeling the staff, the one true thing she had left, tears rolling down her face.

Halfway back to the house he stopped, called to her.

“What you have broken, now you must fix.  Come, Kate.”

 

 

Inside the house Gaani had wiped Arya’s blood off, assessed her hurts.

“She’s fucking crazy, Gaani, and she’s jealous.”  Arya felt her fury rise as the shock and pain of her hurts intensified; the body trying desperately to repair itself, cell by cell.

Gaani smiled sadly, gave Arya’s hand a little squeeze.

“Kate has always idolized Jaqen.  He was her mentor, her only friend for a very long time. To be honest, Arya, none of us have seen Jaqen like this, it’s a bit of a shock.  She lost her control, she lost her temper.  Kate has never failed us, always been incredibly loyal...and silent.  We didn’t know.  I’m sorry.”

Arya stood, moved her body around to keep her muscles working, to allow them to repair themselves under duress. Fibers finding each other, pain shooting through her nerves, singing as they made their connections.  Her ribs hurt; she wondered if they had been cracked; her split lip throbbed as it swelled.  Fucking CUNT.  She allowed her anger to help her system circulate, relished it as she breathed in and out and allowed it to self-fulfill, anger to pain and back again.

She saw Jaqen near the house, striding with purpose with Kate trailing behind.  They entered the room and the Waif disappeared for a moment, came out with a small case.

The silence was palpable, and Arya willed herself to stay quiet, to control her mouth even as her eyes flashed and betrayed her.

The Waif looked over at Arya, reproached, flagging.

“I’m so sorry.” She murmured. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

_Shame, shame, her emotions had shown, they came out, and they were not acceptable. And not wanted. Ohhh…_

She looked at the rest of them.

“I’m so, so, sorry.”

She pulled the case out, opened it. Healing. A purpose. A reason.

“Now let me fix you.”

Her movements shifted into an efficiency, a field nurse, a healer. Avoiding anyone’s eyes she tended to her patient, to her victim, and she moved Arya gently, pulling out an ointment, vaguely tasting of honey and sharpness, herbs, and dabbing it onto her lip, onto any broken skin, and then another, rubbing an arnica gel up and down her arms.

“Can you take your shirt off?”  Arya nodded, and pulled her tee shirt off, sitting in the room, gray bra covering her as new bruises started to come to the surface of her body, joining the ones she received yesterday; red welts blossoming into dark purple and blue.  

The waif gently, gently covered her in the arnica and rubbed it in softly, the evidence of her mayhem in front of her.

Arya sat stiffly under these ministrations and the waif’s surprisingly soft, gentle hands. When she had finished, she felt the ointment and the arnica, and a bit of the topical painkiller start to take effect.

 

The Waif fell to a cross-legged position in front of and looked up at Arya, catching her eyes for the first time _. Forgive me. You have to. Forgive me._

 

Trying to stabilize her voice. “In a bit, in a little bit, can I show you exactly what you would have needed to do to avoid all of that?”

Arya’s anger started to cool as the pain stopped feeding itself.  Breaking the loop. She regarded the Waif; the woman’s pain became clarified to her: the emotions, naked, unfamiliarly raw.  Outside of her own control.  A hard place to find yourself, a bitter lesson. Arya understood. She softened.

The unsplit side of her lip pulled up a little bit, and the resulting little smile was crooked, a little bit of forgiveness, of redemption, wrapped loosely in a twinge of pain.

“If you can show me how to _block_ all of that, I’d be grateful...but what I really want is to learn how to DO that, do all of that.”

“Just so.”

And the waif’s small smile back contained a bit of gratitude.

“Come.”

Jaqen pulled Arya up gently and led her out the door to the little path in the woods.  She moved gingerly, feeling herself loosen more and more as she walked; the call of the leaves starting to quicken her steps; the loamy green air filling her lungs.

The forest held the answer, filling the gaps she did not realize that she had, a mellow green light calming her.   She breathed it in. Kept it. A wash through her.

They came to an opening in the forest; the floor dampened with leaves, a few breaks in the canopy above them.  Tangled roots.  She stopped, sighed, and lay down on the ground, limbs out, mimicking her pose in the water; open to the universe.

_Release the tension_

_Inhale a steadiness_

_Exhale:_

_the tick tock twitches that reverberated through her_

_the cold black fear of what they were about to do_

_the constant edge that her desire gave her, a constant arousal derailing her focus, Jaqen’s unwitting gift to her of an endless hunger leading her thoughts, the sweetness, the aching_

_this strange place, these strange people_

_this rage: enemies that had taken her father, her mother, her brother_

_the fear of losing him, of endangering him_

_Inhale_

_Inhale_

_inhale_

And she lay on the ground, Jaqen standing sentry over her, watching the movements flow through her face, her closed eyes, and the muscles start to soften.  He absorbed her form. Limbs straight out, narrow ankles and wrists moving to a fullness in her thighs, the long muscles of her arms graceful.  He waited until her breathing was slackened, calm, and he knelt beside her, her turbulence diminished.

He summoned his love into his mouth, and with gentlest lips he touched her face, willing his emotion to imbue her, to protect her, to keep her.

Eyes opened slightly, lazily, gray irises slitting as she moved to return his kiss.  As gently, gently as he could, a butterfly wing, a pull of silk, he kissed her split lip and the bruises on her face, kissed her neck, moved to her stomach and kissed the plane of it. He pulled her pants down, stretchy and easy to move, and regarded his fascination;  the lips pinked, the bud visible.  He slowly, softly kissed it, traced the edges of the lips, a saltiness from her sweat tanging the taste of her sex. He savored it.  A gentle suckling, pulling, and a last kiss of finality, of promise, _of later_ and he pulled up to softly kiss her lips, give her a taste of herself.

“Mmmmm.” Rolled through her mouth up from her core. A soft smile, a pull; her center wakened and wanting but not overwhelmed.  His face...the planes and angles and fullness, so pleasing to her.

A murmuring.  “I love you, Jaqen, you are my everything, you are mine.”  She closed her eyes again and he felt his entirety swell with the words, buoyant, watching her face become more radiant, flushed by her declaration.

Their sentries, the canopy of leaves above, of waving branches and little ferns, the protecting aura of green fertility, all of that encircled them, whispered the affirmation of what they had witnessed, and shared the recording of it on gentle forest winds.

The trees whispered their affirmation over, and over, and the wind rushed to spread it.

 

 

When they came into the house their little foursome created a new dynamic.  The Waif stood, chastened but not completely diminished. Jaqen as the leader, unquestioned. Gaani as a balancer.  Arya completed it, the chosen.

They looked over their plans, and discussed their movements for when they got to Paris, drilling down their first several targets, choreographing justice.

They ate, and afterwards went outside. Time for Arya’s lesson.  Still chastened, the Waif pulled her into position.  She showed her where to move her hands, how to see where a blow might go based on the position of her enemy’s feet, of her core.  She showed her where to strike; where to hit if she were close, how to use her skull and fingers and elbows to impact the most delicate of places on an attacker.

They worked together and the Waif’s skill lifted some of Arya’s doubts.

“You’re really, really good at this.”

The Waif smiled, a robotic gesture still, but her voice was organic, had depth.

“I’d better be. I’ve been training for years.  Jaqen showed me, but much of it I picked up…guess I have an aptitude for it.”

Arya laughed.

“I will have to agree with you…an aptitude is absolutely correct.  And you weren’t even trying to kill me.”

The Waif’s small smile appeared, and as they turned to go back to the house, she put her hand tentatively on Arya’s shoulder.

Arya clasped her hand on it.

  
  
  


A drumbeat of rain fell muffled on the countryside around the chateau.

A cascade of papers across the table.

A kettle whistling.

Quiet voices, rising and falling with the pique of their ideas, with an increased urgency as time nudged them closer to their mission, with an uneasy trust forged out of necessity, shared purpose.

A complicated swirling of emotions among them all: excitement, the turgid fear that coats the inside of your stomach, slows your fingers.  Acrid sweat born of anxiety.  Righteous anger, flaring nostrils and widening eyes.

The plans were disseminated, shared, marked up.  Roles accepted. Secondary plans made, a backup, a backup for that, and that and that.  Meeting points, safe places, snake pits to avoid.

Jaqen sat at the head of the table, arms draped loosely on the wood in front of him.  He looked over at Arya: is a girl ready?   _And what had he done to her?_  He watched as she twitched a foot, nervously, her lip swollen.

At least there was some respite from the vitriol between her and Kate.  He had not expected forgiveness, on either side, but the shared purpose between them – and Kate’s atonement – joined them in common cause, gave them a space to move forward together.

Which was ideal, because momentarily they’d begin a new phase in Paris, with the four of them in one apartment.

He groaned, inwardly; then compartmentalized the thought and subsumed himself in his final planning.  At the ends of his thoughts, the final point in which he’d allow himself to light a small candle, he nurtured a little dream away from this reality, into another time and space, where they could spend their time together without constraint.

 

 

 

The drive back to Paris was a blur, rain thumping on the windshield.

The new apartment was small: the living room would be sleeping quarters for Gaani and Kate; the beautiful wrought-iron detailing and courtyard foregone for a location closer to their initial targets, a hint of squalor, of foreign smells wafting up into the windows and bitter-eyed youth in the streets.

Arya hefted her bag onto the bed, listened to the flat thump as it bounced on the stiff mattress _.  Better than the floor, better than the couch_ ; wryly, aware of her fortune as Jaqen’s partner.  She sprawled out too, just for a moment, gingerly putting the unbruised side of her face on the bed, watching Jaqen prepare himself.

Two guns, tucked in at his waist.  A knife at his forearm. She tried halfheartedly to break the tension in the room – his preparations reminded her somehow of a soldier preparing for battle. _He is_. For the briefest moment she thought of the knife against his skin, warming as it kept contact with him, the flesh underneath it only covering smooth long muscles.

“When this is said and done, you’re going to have to _take_ me like that – fully armed, dangerous.  As training.”  She gave a weak smirk, watching the muscles of his arms stretch and flex as he dressed.

He stretched out on the bed close to her, smoothing errant strands of hair away from her face, fingertips tracing around her temples.

“Ah, more training – should a man ask Kate to help a girl understand how to disarm an angry lover?  She has seemed to be your biggest test so far.”  His teasing did not abate the urgency that was written on his face, signed off with a strain in his forehead, but it melted the smallest edges of frost that had gathered on her limbs.

She laughed, summoning up some playfulness... desperately trying to melt the frost further, tease his boundaries. “Would you like to trade places with her for the night? You get the floor, she and I can take the bed?  Training?”

An eyebrow raised at her, his lips curved downward and the gentle fingers on her temple moved to a tighter grip on her shoulder.   “Lovely girl. This is not a thing to joke about. I share you with no one.”

She sat up, reached for him: for the slightest second she missed his hair, she could pull him to her more easily, the feeling of the strands pulling through her fingers.  Shoulders would do instead. She pulled him to her, felt the steel of the knife through his sleeve, saw the bulge of his armament.  Another gentle kiss, his tongue slipping into her mouth, slowly and then torturously, slowly sliding out, velvet, a sensation for later, later _– fuck these broken lips!_ – and looked up at him.

“Yours.” A small nod, and she inhaled his smell, memorized his face as it was over her, and tried to exhale her fears.

He smiled and then straightened, and she saw the tenderness fall off of his form as he moved into his role, his true role: terrible and strong and quiet.  A machine.  His eyes glazed steel as he considered his next moves, and withdrew himself mentally from her attention.  It was time for him to go.

The others were going to track their initial targets: the goal was to make their first move within the next four days, strike and then strike again, ultimately taking out the foot soldiers that were prepared to detonate themselves in the streets of Paris.   Three of their targets were close by and Jaqen had seen one of them through the window.  Varys had conveyed an urgency, again, to all of them and Arya felt the pit of her stomach recoil as she realized that she was an additional weight, an anchor on them.

Her face, bruised as it was, would attract too much attention, and she had not yet proven herself to join them.  Yet.

She was sick with worry, a leaden ball in her stomach, hands and feet numb, cold; as their footsteps echoed out of the apartment and down the stairs she curled up on the bed; tears found the shortest path down her face and dripped down onto her neck.  The skies above Paris cried with her.

_Return to me, my love – I can not bear your loss_

 

 

Cersei was wasn’t pacing, right now – would have been better if she was. She stood like a statue, her neck rising straight up, every sinew pulled.  Every breath scraped past her teeth to escape her mouth.  Tommen looked at her, pinked cheeks, and digested her words.

“I can’t just stay here, mother – we have too much happening at the office. My internship. I can’t just stay home for a few days.  You’re not being reasonable.  We can’t just stay in the flat.”  He rarely spoke against his mother, didn’t want to now as she stalked the floor.  His uncle, now omnipresent, not calming her circling ire.  But she’d also never given him such an unreasonable demand – a three-day period, housebound, as if he was grounded!  A child!

“You can.  You will. This is not a debate.  This is an order.  I’ve given you plenty of time to wrap up what you need to.  Next week you are here, only here; if you can’t do this for yourself, than you need to do it for me.”

Her voice softened at the end, but it was the type of softness that made Tommen clench a little bit.  That softness that wound around her unhinging, that muffled the sound of her demands –he knew those demands were still there, intact, and made more dangerous by the feathersoft ask.

She always meant business: when she softened, she meant murder.

Tommen sighed. Cracked. “Yes, mother.  Next week; I’ll prepare myself for a siege. I don’t know what you’re talking about….” He took a weak stab at impertinence, huffed a little bit, looked at his mother and breathed it back into himself.

  


 

Cersei’s face melted just a bit, softened slightly at the eyes: _Good.  Safe._

The fucking useless monsters were planning, and they hadn’t let them in on their plans.  She knew _Paris_ ; she knew _tourists_ ; she knew _locals_.  She also knew, that if their money trail was followed closely enough, if someone was tenacious enough to track through…that they’d find her.  Thank fucking god Ned was gone – he had the most complete picture, his foolishness, his inability to see past his infuriatingly righteous nose…he was a formidable enemy.  No longer.

The fucking beasts’ audacity, their sheer audacity gave Cersei the taste of bile in her throat; seeing the numbers roll in from Baratheon’s contracts or watching Jaime slowly stroke himself, moving himself to a fever as she undressed in front of him – her two most pleasurable, most satisfying moments could not reduce the sickness, the illness that she felt, the fear as she realized that her scheme – already netting her millions – was slowly morphing into a demon she could not call back.

Tommen had left; a reprieve. He’d be fine next week – she resented his little show right now, but his little shows were nothing compared to Joff’s.   Cersei walked into the kitchen and found herself leaning over the shining quartz countertop, hands outstretched, staring down at a slight reflection of her face.

_Just so long as they were safe.  That they stayed safe.  That this continued._

Her freedom from Robert, her ability to run the company as she saw fit, Jaime Jaime Jaime…this was supposed to be her swansong.  Instead she felt like she was descending, and the very thought of that added to her anger; a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  


Cersei must’ve been standing there for an hour; she moved stiffly when she rose up, his footsteps behind her.

Jaime saw Cersei’s  form straighten and he eyed the graceful curve of her back as she pulled to a stand, looked at her arms, the shoulders broad enough to show power, round enough for him to control – sometimes – when he took her.

He felt himself concentrate to a point, outside of his rational self which watched Cersei’s unbalancing – this point was focused on one thing.

He walked behind her and without saying a word reached up her skirt, roughly pulled down her underwear to reveal her ass, god, so many times he wanted it, so many times he had it.

He did not prepare her.  He slid behind her and roughly pushed his head up into her.  Cersei was always ready; that knowledge kept him hard for her; they were matched in their desire for each other.

He would take her, his fucking imperious queen - his queen his sister his whore his cunt his his- take her and make her his, make her HIS, and he would do it on his terms, as he liked. He would pay later but now it was too sweet to ignore.  She tried to stop her noises, but she was whimpering, and that’s what he wanted to hear: her weakness. He slid in and out of her, he couldn’t take it, he didn’t care if she was ready….

…and as he spasmed into her, he pulled her head back close to his, and as he growled his coming she trilled in anger, ringed fingers gripping the cold edge of the counter as she tried to grind down on him, keep him…

But it was too late, and he pulled out from her roughly, watched as he leaked onto the kitchen floor, anticipated her flashing eyes.

She smiled, surprisingly, sweetly at him as he panted, collecting himself; in his weakness she reached up to kiss him and bit him sharply.

A drop of blood mingled with his seed on the floor and Cersei kept her mouth up against his.

“You’ll pay for that…later.”

He watched her as she assembled herself,  striding out of the kitchen, her very _being_ angry, clouds of gold haze around her form, and he wondered what part of him had died and whether he was in heaven or hell, whether she was his angel or his worst demon.

Both, probably.

He sighed, and frowning at the life on the floor: semen and blood on the marble.

He reached down with a towel, and cleaned it up _._

 

 

 

His legs were twitching.

His eyes moved in REM sleep, the lids quivering as his eyes blindly searched.

His hands grasped out, reaching nothing, sheets, grabbing.

A low moan escaped his mouth and rose in volume and intensity until it crested, waking him.

Bran sat bolt upright in bed; the pittering of Sansa’s feet down the hall turning on the light, yellow beams illuminated through the door as she opened it, moving red hair out of her bleary face.

He gasped, gasped, tears falling down his face and his breath came hot and ragged and wet as he came out of his dream and into Sansa’s arms, white hands soothing, soft voice shushing, hair pressed back – blue eyes wide, worried.

As he found his voice it blended with his breathing, sobbing.  Words started to form and he looked up at Sansa in terror.

“They’re taking her.”

 

 

 

They found one of them, and then another, and suddenly they had three of their targets in eyesight.

The first was walking as if he hadn’t a care in the world walking down Rue Strasbourg Saint-Denis, past Halal markets, graffitied walls, a smattering of Chinese hookers, a Turkish restaurant, a small grocer, vacant storefronts, broken windows.  Big brown eyes; a handsome man by any measure, big features, a smattering of black hairs connecting his eyebrows.  He was dressed like any Parisian young man of limited means; nothing betrayed him as as ISIS, nothing to suggest that he didn’t have the same cares as the thousands of other young men of limited means who did not have the terror of innocent Parisians in their crosshairs.

Like he had not received training and support, and indeed funding for his mission from an offshoot cell made up of his peers in Syria.

Like he wasn’t going to try to blow the tender flesh and bones and brains and cells and blood of humans all around him, take their consciousness away from them, end their hopes, their dreams, their stories, start the sound of a thousand women weeping, of parents in desperate sadness, of children not understanding. What. Had. Happened.

Like he was immune to the impact of the bomb that he would strap on his chest.

Like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  


 

Fazul Mohammed.  Jaqen had the name.

They watched young Fazul; Kate was ahead, wearing a headscarf, holding her phone.  Gaani was leaning up against an alley wall, smoking cigarette after cigarette, looking bored, and Jaqen slowly made his way up the street behind them.  They watched him join with two of his fellows; Gaani’s eyes narrowed slowly, his great brown face impassive as he identified them.

Al- Jolani.  Al-Libbi. Fazul.

There were three of them. This was them, all at once.  Three, a magic number.

Jaqen felt the hairs on his arm rise, his muscles tense.  A silent prayer sent up, quickly, like a flare to whatever power lay above him, to give him the timing and the judgment not to get them all killed.

The three were discussing, low voices, as they walked up the street towards Kate and the alley that Gaani was leaning in.

Jaqen looked over at Gaani; _here they are, ready for the taking, we could wait or we could do it right this minute; three snakes taken out._  Jaqen stopped, cell phone out; a quick text to Kate, who casually stood up and loped towards them, holding a small bag of groceries, looking into shop windows.  Kate looked over the streets; not bustling, casual movement. If they could do this….

Gaani surveyed his alley.  Empty, enough.

A nod, imperceptible.

Kate’s frail form moved towards the three, trying to time her steps so that she’d intercept them closer to Gaani’s alleyway.  As she closed the range with them she plowed directly into young Fazul.

“Sorry, so very sorry. I was not watching my steps” she said in broken Arabic, hiding her icy eyes, her headscarf keeping her hair down, pretending to fumble for her groceries.

Al-Libbi swore at her and she threw her hands up, up by way of apology. Al- Jolani picked up Fazul from the ground – the little waif had hit him like a fucking train – and joined in the swearing, black eyes angrily piercing her, a slow wave of realization as the paleness of her eyes became clear to him…

Jaqen lurked like a shark in the shallows, watching the commotion.

NOW.

The Waif grabbed Al-Libbi and threw him towards the alleyway, and Gaani moved like a panther, twisting down to pull Al-Jolani in, kicking his feet.  Fazul tried to scramble upwards; at this point the Waif had twisted her body and elbowed him in the eye.

Jaqen moved, sprang: unblinking, unbreathing, and in a fluid motion pulled out one of his guns and long arms steeled against the reverberations.

And he took their lives, he took their fucking lives as Gaani and Kate wheeled backwards as quickly as they could, a macabre ballet.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The Walther had a silencer on it; a Finnish one; a suppressor.  The gunshots muffled, muted, a clear sound like a snare drum, barely noticeable over the traffic just outside the alleyway.

Fazul’s eyes started to glaze over as red blood ran down his maimed face; Jaqen had shot him in the side of the head and it was a gruesome juxtaposition: his handsome face unblemished on the one side, fragments of bone and brain and red blood everywhere else.

Al-Libbi’s face was untouched, but he had taken three of the five shots; a leg, a torso, and one in the chest.  He was still breathing and with every breath he diminished, he lessened; blood gurgling up his windpipe.

Al-Jolani’s face was no more, and the shot, at closest range to Jaqen had decimated his nose and eye, the other eye unseeing under a film of blood.

Jaqen felt his own blood sing through his veins.  His line of sight settled on a nearby dumpster; a cock of the head and the three assassins moved as one to dispose the bodies in the dumpster, buying a little bit of time.

They scattered.

Kate’s black clothing obscured the blood and she moved slower than the other two to keep the suspicion down.  Jaqen beelined the opposite direction of their apartment, zig zagging up alleys, at one point taking off his overshirt and discarding it in a trashcan, wiping the blood from his hands as he did so.

He vanished into the subway.

Gaani walked past the dumpster, past the blood, and out into the street.  He turned and looked at the scene of their redemption, and as he walked in a straight line back to the apartment, a slow smile spread across his face.

Justice.

 

 

Arya had slept fitfully, waiting and waiting for them.  She woke up and padded out to the kitchen, turning the kettle on, a glance out the window through the blinds.  Nothing. Where were they?  It was supposed to be a recon mission, they were just supposed to go and look.

Her anxiety peaked with the kettle and she shook herself, pouring the tea into a quaking cup, making her way back into the bedroom.  As she walked through the hallway she heard steps at the landing.

Her first instinct was to throw the door open, but then she waited: a clever girl would _know_ , first.

She stilled her cup, stilled herself, stilled her hands and listened.

Too heavy to be either of the three of them.

The steps stopped outside her door.

Not them, not them…who was it? She was frozen, frozen.

The doorknob moved and the frame itself creaked as the intruder tested the lock.

The air in her lungs crystallized as she stopped her breath, stopped her cells.

Heavy footsteps outside the door as whoever it was decided against breaking in.  As she heard the steps go down the staircase she crouched, wryly realizing she was trying not to spill the hot tea as she made her way across the living room, under the window line, and slowly, slowly peeked out.

Meryn Fucking Trant.

He was making his way away from the apartment, making his way up the street, casting glances up at her window, looking around the street as he left.

As she realized who it was, her limbs froze and the scalding tea hit the floor.

_Oh Jaqen Jaqen Jaqen, oh Jaqen have they taken you?_

She could not move for a second, could not do anything except allow her thoughts to play like a movie in front of her.

When she came to, she quietly made her way back to her room, got dressed, repacked what little had gotten out of her bag and straightened everything up.  Her phone – there it was – she picked it up, she had to, she had to.  Shaking fingers, she typed out a message.

 

 

At a fine restaurant in Chicago, Sansa’s eyes widened as she heard the trill of her phone.  Petyr had noticed that her beautiful face was slightly…paler…than usual; instead of looking like polished alabaster she had a slight purplish tinge under her eyes; her laugh was a little sharper.

His eyes narrowed as he saw her fingers shake as she read the text and a ghost of fear rose across her face, flitting as quickly by as a hummingbird.

Sansa collected herself, put her phone down, and resumed talking.  As Petyr breathed in the soft, warm scent of the perfume she was wearing, he surveyed her in her entirety: something was off.

“My darling Sansa, is everything okay?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  He purred; the best part of his lunch dates with Sansa was the half erection he was able to hide under the table.  A scared Sansa…well, somehow, in some way, that was even better. He held back a groan.

Sansa flashed that dazzling smile, the made up one he knew was just for him... and with that swanlike neck she pulled herself closer to the center of the table.

“All is well, dear Petyr, just Arya’s little vacation is exciting, that’s all.”

He digested the look of fear on her face, hidden under the smile; it was delicious, his pretty little bird was scared. He took the information, sealed it away, codifying it with the look he had seen on her pretty little face.

She was up to something, he knew it.

He felt a surge in his cock as it went from half hard to full mast; he had suddenly just become a bit more powerful in their little game, with his delicious prey right in front of him.

“So, darling, Sansa.  What _is_ your sister up to?”

As  Sansa quickly formulated a response he imagined her pinned, helpless underneath him, and he stifled his breath as he watched her lips as she started to talk.

_Well then, darling Sansa, we shall play, won’t we?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots and lots happening in this chapter...hope you like it!


	20. some horrible, mad angel

All of Arya’s tension, anxiety, the horrible cloud around her in the past week…all of it crystallized.

FUCK YOU.

Her scared twitching fingers and icy vapors turned to red, roaring blood – a tsunami of rage.  It filled her.

Meryn Trant.

FUCK YOU.

She waited for Jaqen, Gaani and Kate to return and felt herself grow and stretch to fill the rage, her skin could not hold her, she was immense.   _They thought they’d get her, too, now – wasn’t enough to kill her father, wasn’t enough to kill her mother – her youngest brother, a fucking lamb - what else could they take from her._

Her heart pounded and pushed the blood throughout her body; she felt it sing through her arms, her legs.

She breathed in. The rage, it took her – it motivated her – and it killed the cold angst that had been holding her down, smothering her.

She willed herself to stand still, to consolidate herself, gather her stormclouds to her being.

_Have they not taken enough.  And now they come to her doorstep, to her!_

FUCK YOU.

She stood like some horrible, mad angel decorating a grave, stilled by her anger.  She willed her thoughts to stop their terrible circles, their chasing and focus into one straight line of intention, a path that ended in blood. She stood there, fists clenched, until she heard some familiar catlike steps come up the stairs.

_Jaqen. JAQEN JAQEN_

Her heartbeat climaxed as he walked into the room, a metallic tang surrounding him like a cloud.

She’d never seen him… _work_ …before – he came into the room like a terrible deity, blood streaks on his shirt – his eyes the most intense pinpoints of golden light concentrated that she’d ever seen.  He still managed to keep the laconic grace of his muscles; it was his soul that she saw, his blackness, his joy for taking those lives.

She covered the ground between them and rushed to him – her rage needed him in his terrible form – needed him, needed his release to sweep her out – or needed him to become an animal and push her down in his ferocity.

As she came to him the sharp edges of his face softened; he held her at arms length.

“This first part, lovely girl, is done.  Three, we have three.  The setup was too perfect; we had to move.”  His purr did not deviate; it was the same tone of voice he’d used before to drive her into a squirming mass and even now as he spoke, so many other things to address, she felt that sweet ache start again.

The light glittered on his teeth as he spoke and he reminded Arya of nothing more than a wild cat, a panther, as he spoke.

“Gaani…Kate…”  She suddenly became aware of their absence.

“They will come.  They are fine.” A tinge of pride across his face; _his team, his family._

“We found them.  Ambushed them. These are the three that would take the Pont-Neuf out.”

Arya envisioned the beautiful bridge, standing for centuries, hundreds of bodies traversing it,  broken by the twisted moral coda that drove these men to callously disregard their fellow humans, children, women as so much refuse.  Little bodies, the blood – she allowed her mind to create the mental image of blood seeping on the stones and used it to fortify her rage.

“Jaqen. Meryn Trant was here.”  Her voice was low – the rage did not allow it to tremble, and she focused on him.

His eyebrow raised.

“He walked up the stairs, fiddled with the door, looked up at the window. Thought it was you at first, almost opened the fucking door to let him in…caught myself.” A wry smile.  “Don’t think that he saw me; he might’ve heard me, though, I was making tea.  How in the fuck did he find us...we just got here?”  Arya couldn’t help a shiver from coming off her form; the anger needed an outlet.

She saw him absorb the information. And was surprised at his reaction.

A smile spread slowly across his face.

“The snake will come to us.  Just so.” A whisper. “Just him, or were there others?”

She shook her head. “Just him. I didn’t see, if there were.”  She swallowed. “He would have killed me, if he found me?”  She nodded, answering her own question.

“Lovely girl. You will not be left alone again. A girl has no fears – this Meryn Trant is nothing to us, and if we can strike at him in our own house, so much the better.  Very convenient.” Jaqen’s voice was arrogant, silky.

“We will leave again, of course, but in the meantime if we need to handle him, my love, oh we will…”

Jaqen almost seemed amused at the thought of Meryn Trant walking into their apartment, thinking that he could take them out.

He released her arms, chuckled a little bit, shaking his head.

“So they come to us now…” his eyes shone, and it was a combination of blood, and lust and incredulity, those lips in their fullness..that mouth… “If they come again, it will be their last breath.”

“My most delightful girl…come.  A man would have a reward, and if so, as quickly as we can take it.”

She needed him, needed to taste him, needed confirmation of his realness within this storm around them, after the past few days of so much newness, angst and now the budding rage that empowered her, emboldened her.  She pulled at his shirt, backed herself up to lean against the table, the closest flat surface, pulling him with her.  He grabbed at her hair and leaned up against her, his body a plane of muscle and sinew pressing, seeking as much of her surface as he could.

Their mouths found each other and each movement of their tongues was a tease of how they would pleasure each other later, her split lip just added another dimension of pain, currency to pay for the pleasure of his mouth. Arya spread her thighs apart to take him closer to her, the smallest whimper as his tongue slipped in and out of her mouth and he moved his lips to her throat to her throat.

“Lovely girl…we must not…Gaani…they will return…Quickly…we must hurry…”  Regret, urgency crossed his voice as he looked at the table.

Her voice strangled in frustration and at the sound he picked her up like a ragdoll and moved her across the small apartment to their bedroom.

 

Once the door was closed he let her down, pushing her pants down as she fumbled with his, cognizant of the holsters, the cold steel. He felt his cock spring to meet her.   _Can’t wait to be in her...need to be in her_ ….He stepped out of his pants and in a fluid movement he carefully moved the weapons to the side table, and then roughly stood her up facing the wall, pressing for a moment against her ass as she arched her back to meet him.  

A man is always ready for this.

The shape, the line of her, her face turned to the side, the sight of her spine, the small divets where her back budded out into her ass, the softness...skin…he could not hold himself.

He knelt behind her to taste her, pushing her ass apart, so much to want in front of him...the urgency allowed only one lick flicking, tasting with outstretched tongue, and standing up again pushed his erection between her thighs, moving it in and out against the softness of her thighs before grabbing her leg and angling up to slowly fill her until he felt her close around him at the base, that sweet first sheathing, a universe found in that slit, a wonder, opening to fit him as he slid in, little by little, the motion sapping his control.

He could not will himself any longer to finesse her and he stabbed her roughly with his cock, an arm taking her off balance, _can not stand it,_ for a single moment leaving her hanging, balancing on him – until he could not take it any longer, her form impaled, the smell of her hair in his face and he lifted her and pushed her back down on him, obscenely, splitting her as a man would take his reward as quickly as he could get it.

Her noises became more intense - then they both heard the sound of the front door opening.  She gripped him, hard, and he came as he felt her all around him, her body lithe in front of him for his taking, his reward, the smell of her and him and her body shivering with want filled, her own self releasing a wetness to match his, a shudder pleasuring through her, little needles through her skin, pricking each pore.

And they silenced themselves, allowing their breaths to cool, as they heard Kate’s small footsteps in the house and move past the very wall that they stood, still joined, and into the bathroom to wash the blood off of her.

Jaqen lifted her off of him and carried her to the bed, wiping her clean with two fingers, licking them, with an unholy grin and hooded eyes.

She grinned back, the urgency and secrecy of their coupling still sending shockwaves through her, the subservience of him cleaning her, cleaning the signs of their union… “I expect you to do this, love, always…”

He smiled suggestively at her.  “A man must serve.”

 

Put back together, somewhat, the ragged edges of their sex and the smell of it clinging to them, they made their way out into the common space of the small apartment.

The Waif raised an eyebrow and cocked her head.

“Well done, Jaqen…as usual.”

Arya could not completely divine her meaning.

“Kate was excellent, Arya, absolutely critical in driving the snakes to us.”  Jaqen’s voice dripped honey as he kept a hand on her, a single source of heat to connect them.

“But…Meryn has found us, Kate – we must keep watch, stay on guard. Arya says that he walked up the stairs, tried the door and left. Next time he may try harder to see what is behind the door.  I will contact Varys and see about another place for us to be.  It may not be such a good idea for us to be all together, all at once.”

Arya could see Kate’s jealousy warring with her…professionalism. Kate’s eyes scanned Arya in that robotic way, saw her flushed cheeks, saw her ragged hair.  A small wash of pain on her normally emotionless face, and then Kate willed it away; a straightening of ligaments.

A few moments Gaani walked in, still broadly smiling; each life taken was payment for his wife, his young children that had been brutally murdered in front of him, each drop of blood a tithe on the wounds he had suffered at the hands of those that moved for the same purpose, the same hatred, as those they chased today.   _Vengeance._

They put their heads together, discussed their next move.  Soon the three bodies would be discovered…there were more, out there, and Arya must join them, stay with them – they must finish and soon.

Next steps laid, they prepared for tomorrow…a harsh day was dawning, and they must be ready.  
  


Sansa knew she had fucked up.

Sansa clutched her bag more tightly, steady noise of her heels drumming with her heartbeat, wishing to forget the restaurant, Petyr, the cold confines of the scenario rushing all around them even as she walked away…leave them all behind.  Cuddle up on the couch, eat something forbidden and just lose all… of this strife.

_What had just happened?_

Baelish had somehow started to ask all the wrong questions.  Or all the right questions, for him.  His eyes had narrowed, and there had been a…cruelty, a steeling of his voice…she felt it, precisely, the moment when she lost the upper hand in their little conversation.  And she could not find it again.

Couldn’t figure out how to re-wrap him into her, and with each failed try she felt like she had lost even more power.

She felt a blast of cold when she realized that Petyr had seen her face.   Arya’s text made her blood freeze; little jagged crystals moving up her capillaries; it took all of her doing to armor herself appropriately to keep their steady drumbeat of chit chat moving.

Petyr sensed her weakness like a bloodhound; she could have sworn that he sat up straighter, that his face flushed…almost an arousal for him.  Her weakness turned him on above and beyond the constant ache she tried to will him into having.

_So now he knows Arya is in Europe.  He knows she’s in Paris._

_How could I have been so careless?_

Once Sansa mentioned Paris, Petyr had given one of those Cheshire cat smiles; his goatee creating the effect that he was, indeed, the devil.  He took a sip of his wine.

“Arya in Paris, eh?  A surprise to have her in that fair city…I would have expected her to go on safari, or something equally befitting her…independent nature.”

He paused and his eyes twinkled as he smiled and took a sip of his wine.

“Speaking of independence, is she alone over there?”

Sansa had lied – but not very well, and she knew that he knew it.  God dammit!

“Yes, she’s with a bunch of girlfriends over there.”

“Very interesting…I thought that Arya was not the type of girl to have a…’bunch of girlfriends.’  How long is she out there for?”

A groan, a frantic scrambling – and an inner question – _really, how the long was she out there for?_  - and Sansa murmured an open ended answer, tried to will her face into the most open-eyed, gentle smile she could.

“Oh, you know Arya. She’s out there until she decides otherwise.  Can’t make her come back.”

Petyr sat back.  “How lovely.  I may be out there myself in the next few weeks.  I will look her up.”

Sansa could see, oh she could see his ideas start to coalesce; she could _feel_ it.

“Sansa, if I may be so forward, you’re welcome to join me when I go.  I know that Arya would love to see you – and honestly, I can’t imagine a better way than to see the City of Light than with such an incandescent creature.  I know that you and Willas have been having your issues, lately – do you think you could slip out of the country for a few days?”

Aaaaahhhh….her lies were coming back to haunt her….the made up fights with Willas to try to entice Petyr to give his information out...

Sansa smiled again.   _God she could not wait to get out of there!_  “Oh Petyr, you really shouldn’t. So generous.  I think it’s hardly appropriate, though, no matter how things are with Willas.”

“Nonsense, Sansa – I’m not sure that you understand what I’m proposing.  Of course it would be appropriate – we’ll get you your own suite.  It’s all for the family, Sansa, anything for the Starks.”

_Oh he was good._

Sansa gave a wry smile and the smallest of imperceptible nods – she didn’t have the spirit to keep pushing against his advances.  A battle for another day.

She sighed, and took an uncharacteristically large gulp of her wine, and noted sadly that they had yet to be served their entrée.

It was going to be a long lunch.

 

Cersei couldn’t help the smile pushing her lips. She had seen the news this morning and replayed it in her head over and over.

Ahh, some help in dealing with the unruly beasts – whether the helpers knew it or not.  Having the little insolent, disobedient little beasts taken out by someone else…now that was a gift.  Having them taken out by individuals, rather than a government hit…that was a lottery, a jackpot.

And she didn’t have to pay anyone to stop them, the ungrateful helpers - and now some of her fears about keeping her family safe during their terror in Paris...well, that was just another sweet consequence.

Her joy warmed her, rose like cream to the top of her.  She fairly purred as she closed her laptop; the profit statements of Baratheon’s last month, the new contracts they had secured to rebuild the very cities that she ravaged on the other hand…oh, Cersei knew what joy felt like, knew what it looked like as pixels on a screen, knew how it felt when it flowed through her veins.

She felt a sudden burst of wet warmth between her legs.  Joy, indeed. _It feels good._

 _Jaime…where was Jaime_ …she moved to her phone, looking for a message from him.  Nothing from him…five texts from Meryn… _interesting, most interesting,_ fucking Meryn Trant was actually useful, for once in his miserable life….

As Cersei read through the texts her smile spread further. _Good. Fools._  Let them do her dirty work, then, and only then would she take them out, the fucking intruders.

She placed the phone down beside her, curling her legs under her as she sat on a chair in the study, the lamp light gleaming off of the gilded edges of the rococo table…next to her wine.

Cersei moved her hand down and put one finger to pleasure herself.  She groaned and took a sip of the wine, tasting it as it went down her throat and then setting it down so that she could more...aggressively...bring herself to orgasm.  

She shuddered when she was finished and brought her fingers out, examining them - fascinating...so different when it was just her...where _was_ he?

A few minutes later her phone rang.  She picked it up and answered it without looking: _Jaime?_

“Hello there, Cersei…I trust this is not an inconvenient time to talk?”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed.

“Petyr Baelish.  To what do I owe…this pleasure?”

  
  
  
  
  


They had mapped out their next few targets.

All in all, nine more foot soldiers needed to be taken out.  Complicated.

And after that, Cersei.  And whoever stood in the way of Cersei, be it Meryn Trant or Jaime Lannister.

They saw their handiwork on the news; the discovery had been grim, early morning, the pale sunlight illuminating the crimson stains on the sidewalk, bringing in police and passerby.

 

Gaani was working with Arya, showing her how to quickly pull her gun out; how to hold it, how to escape, all the little details that came to their trade.

“For you, you are small – you need to make sure to compress yourself into the smallest target.”

“Your first duty is to know your exits.  Map them out immediately as you walk into a room.”

“Fighting a man, the best place to try to take them out is right here and here.”

They were heading to the mosque; Jaqen and Gaani would join for the dhuhr prayer; Kate and Arya would be together in the market until they finished; keeping their eyes out for one woman that had already planned her own death; her picture stared out at them with defiant eyes.

She had made Arya the most furious.

Arya’s rage had stayed with her through the night, woke up with her in the morning, sat on the edge of her coffee cup and slid down her throat as she drank coffee in the morning.  Jaqen had tried to hold her, in the night, but she found she could not handle even _his_ closeness; she nursed the anger and she wanted no human contact, no grabbing hands on her; even the length of his form seemed to be irritant.  His calm only irritated her.  She wanted to throw things, she wanted to rip everything around her in shreds until she saw the target of her anger.  FUCKING MERYN TRANT. How dare they, how dare they...

Her angst might have made her miserable but at least it made her pliable.  The rage…she hadn’t yet learned how to deal with it; Jaqen had made it submit, made her submit as he filled her so urgently the night before…but only temporarily….

_Can’t fuck all the time._

 

Gaani and Kate had slept with guns by their head, had set up some obstacles on the staircase that might alert them of someone trying to navigate the dark stairs in the middle of the night.  The prospect of Meryn Trant returning to force his way in seemed to be endlessly amusing to the three assassins – _as if he stood a chance._

 

_Plans made._

They had another 20 minutes to kill before they needed to wend their way out of the apartment and into the streets.

Arya had one piece of unfinished business to attend to before then. _Just. In. Case._

Taking her phone, and the phone that she considered her ‘assassin’ phone, she looked at a number on the one and punched it into the secure phone.

A text to Jon.

forgiveness for her silence, worry about his

an ask to be safe, above everything else

a promise to explain later

 

It felt like a benediction, a cleansing; she had avoided reaching out to Jon for so long and suffered spasms of guilt for it.  Whatever happened from here on out, she’d know that at least she had left him that much, as little as it was.

She and Kate wound the scarves around their heads, Arya covered the visible bruises on her face and dabbed something on her lip to disguise the wound (healing nicely, thanks to Kate’s manuka ointment) and they made their way out of the apartment; Gaani and Jaqen moving individually afterwards; plans made.

_Plans made, plans to keep._


	21. Cersei could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning enacted. violence.

_ sun breaking over Paris suburbs _

_ cigarette butts _

_ bloodstained sidewalks _

_ white bone fragments _

_ police tape and machine guns _

_ a viper’s nest, disturbed _

_ soft dry sound of snakes  _

_ winding amongst themselves _

_ scale on scale _

_ undulating  _

_ searching for the source _

_ of their discontent _

_ brown eyes, little children watching _

_ metal fragments, serpentine wires, circuitry, disgust _

_ fuse together to create something more _

_ more horrible _

_ more fatal _

_ than the sum total of what _

_ one man’s hatred _

_ should reflect _

 

 

They’d identified the mosque that their targets would visit.  It was not far from the house; Gaani entered first. Jaqen, en route, had decided to stay outside; his light hair more problematic now that it was shorn.   Kate and Arya were a block away, killing time.

Arya felt the heavy clutch of Kevlar on her chest; felt the familiar creeping of fear and shook it off, swallowing what was left of it down to join the anger that was now animating her movements.  Fingers, more nimble.  More…alive.

They saw one of their targets walk by.  Too soon. Too soon.

Another one.

The midday prayer would be starting soon.

The voices inside the mosque did not reach the outside except in snatches; Jaqen thought that a pity – the prayers, voices soaring, took him to a place that he had treasured, kept, in his memories. The juxtaposition of the prayers and the intent of their targets reinforced his resolve. 

As the prayers ended and men streamed out in twos and threes, Jaqen saw Gaani come out, walking slowly behind two of their targets.

_ Boys, they were just boys. _

Boys with hate and lust and the fevered paranoia that they had extrapolated from some twisted representation of their god.  Of  _ his  _ god. 

 

Boys affiliated with Cersei; boys who had decided to act in Paris instead of in Afghanistan.

Arya and Kate moved into position, getting closer to Jaqen, still a ways off from Gaani.  Arya reached in, felt the holstered gun, and took in a breath.  She hoped the waif’s training would hold.  For one moment, she conjured up the green of Winterfell, said a small prayer as her feet started to lead her forward, following Kate.

No alley for them this time.  They’d have to follow as inconspicuously as possible.

They made their way past small restaurants and neon signs, past the maelstrom of Parisian refugees walking the sidewalks, forming a line; the targets in the front, Gaani not far behind, then Jaqen, Kate and Arya at the last.

Kate froze at one point; her waifish form so tiny and still she could have been mistaken for a child. 

She looked over at Arya; pointed slightly with her head.

Her.

The woman.

The woman - their other target -  walking up the sidewalk on the other side of the street, turning down a smaller, quieter side street.  Her lips were full, her eyes dark and wet, and her face insolent.  She couldn’t have been older than Arya.

A deviation, then, in the plan.

Arya followed Kate on cat feet and willed her heart to drum more quietly.  Kate quickly sent a text to Jaqen as she walked, stuck her phone into a pocket in her dress.  They crossed the street and maneuvered to fall behind her by a few storefronts.

The woman was walking quickly.   She paused, a moment, to look at a newspaper in a rack; Arya was close enough that she could see the woman’s face register emotion.

_ The three, the three they had killed already.  She was mourning. _

As they grew closer Kate waved Arya to stay back, back. 

Arya’s thoughts swirled as she watched Kate with wide eyes creep closer to this woman.

A break in the passerby gave Kate the shield that she needed and in an instant she seized the opportunity to grab the woman, and slam her down to the ground in between two cars on the street.

Arya watched as Kate pinned her, covered her mouth with one hand, and with the other pulled out her knife – no gun this time, too much noise – and watched Kate’s thin arm move up and down in rhythmic strokes. 

She had never seen this before. She felt her heartbeat thudding.  She watched Kate take the woman’s life.

Arya was hypnotized by the Waif’s movements, Kate completely focused on the task at hand. The woman’s muffled shrieking was growing quieter and then ceasing as Kate gave a final slash to her throat. And Arya stood watching, frozen, a strange flower of vengeance grew out of her and she flared her nostrils – almost done. Cersei would see her soon enough.

  
  
  


She did not hear the footsteps behind her.

A man’s hand roughly closed over her mouth, pushing her face so far to one side that she felt her neck strain.  She felt the steel of a gun pressed roughly up against her, the rest of the arm dragging, pushing against the rib.  She kicked and kicked, trying to summon the will to throw the arm off of her.  Her anger, her fright, all of her muscles straining against this invader.  She tried to bite the hand, twist away.  All for naught.  She was caught, she was dragged, and she thrashed and thrashed as she saw Kate’s back growing smaller, as she was dragged towards an alcove and punched – and she focused on the last thing that she saw.

The red face.

A shock of dark hair.

Pinched eyes, angry.

Meryn Trant.

As Meryn punched her, over and over again, she faded from consciousness.

 

 

Arya started to regain awareness.

She felt the tight, plasticky taste of tape with copper in her mouth.   The tape, the tape, sticking to her hair and her face, forcing her mouth open, barely any air getting in…the feeling was enough to make her try to draw her breath even harder, snuffling through the blood in her nose. Drowning, drowning, losing her head underwater. Her adrenaline rose and hummed coldly through her.  She could register the various pulsings of pain; sharp points, dull thuds, rippling pains all conjoining in waves across her body.

She could feel the pain radiate particularly from the side of her head; the hair was sticky and hot there, throbbing with each heartbeat; the bloodsmell rising, as it dripped in warm rivulets down her neck and pooled around her collarbone, eventually losing its heat to cool on her skin.  

She was tied, leaned up partially in the back of a vehicle, windows blackened, slowly driving through Paris midday traffic.  Her left eye opened, her right eye swelled shut as she came to realize where she was and what had happened.

_ Meryn Trant. _

He was beside her, looking out the window.

Arya tried to get her bearings and felt herself crumple further and surrendered to the waves of pain.

She concentrated her efforts on drawing breath, snuffling through the blood in her nose as her mouth was denied her.

 

Kate looked one last time at the dead woman’s form, tucked underneath the car, her life spilling from her, her face in its final bloody grimace.   Black leather shoe on a leg crooked at an impossible angle.   _ Done.   _ Sidewalks mercifully still clear; a few passersby walking up half a block away.   _ Good.  _  The bloodlust was rising, coupled with the satisfaction of her job, finished.  She moved quickly away from the car to cross the street and walk away from the body, again the black of her dress disguising the blood.   As she sent a small murmuring of gratitude for her luck, the situation handled, the sidewalks cooperating, she realized… _ Arya. _

 

 

She did not see Arya.   _ She must have run. _

_ Guess she wasn’t ready for this.   _ Her adrenaline allowed her pride to rise, a bit of righteousness into it.   _ Guess she wasn’t as useful as  _ he _ thought she’d be.  _

A little hope, a little tiny hope, translating into her footsteps, moving quickly back to the apartment.   _ Maybe she can’t take it.   _ The thrumming live wire of pride built in her got greater with every step…every step away from the body increased her success: she did it. 

Kate wove her way back to the apartment in circles, looping closer and closer to make sure she wasn’t being followed, picturing Arya’s face when she walked in.

_ Couldn’t take it.  Couldn’t take it. _

How can she be with  _ him _ – this is what he does, what he was born to do.

_ How could he have brought her? _  She was weak, weak.

Kate saw Jaqen’s face in her mind and she walked up the stairs with satisfied strides, a  _ victor. _

She opened the door of the apartment to see Gaani and his customary post-murder smile, vengeance across his teeth, sitting on the couch, clothes changed.  She could hear water running, Jaqen in the kitchen, watching blood swirl and dissolve off his hands.

No Arya.  _  Running scared in the city, then. What a...disappointment. _

“It’s done, then.”  She allowed the smile to cross her face; victory.   _ She did it, alone. _

Jaqen turned the water off; his face and arms glistened as he reached for a small towel to wipe the excess off.  He bowed his head with a small smile, looked up at Kate.

“It is done.”  He exhaled.

He looked past her, raised eyebrow.  “Arya?”

“Thought she’d be here. She vanished while I was handling the woman.  Don’t think she could stomach it.”  Kate _ tried _ to keep the smugness out of her voice.

_ Failed. _

Jaqen’s form straightened.  “A girl is not with you?”

Kate walked to the kitchen sink.  She wanted him to smell the blood on her.   _ See, she was like him.   _ The bloodlust made her bold. 

“A  _ girl _ could not stick it out.”  She mocked him, shrugged. “A  _ girl  _ is not ready. A  _ girl _ ran. When I looked up from finishing her, Arya was gone. Thought she’d be back here.”

Jaqen twisted past her, her disappointment fell around her feet, her pride punctured.  He grabbed his phone, a message sent.

She washed her hands in silence and grabbed a change of clothes from her bag in the living room, moved to change in the bathroom.  Walking out, cleansed, having carefully washed every trace of blood down the sink, to see Gaani’s face, thoughtful, and Jaqen’s normally languid pose, tensed.   _ They were supposed to meet here.  They were supposed to meet here. _

The phone lay silent in Jaqen’s hands.

Another message sent.

The only sounds in the room wafted up from the streets below; children were out of school and their voices punctured the silence of the apartment as Jaqen held the phone as if it would come to life at any moment.

Another message sent.

Kate felt her bloodlust, her pride, coalesce into a lump in her throat.  What had happened?  Her fingers felt like the blood was draining from them.

Every muscle in Jaqen’s body was now tensed, taut, and he sent another text.

His voice hissed out of his mouth.  “Get Varys on the phone.  We need eyes, everywhere.  We must find her. Now.”

 

 

The car stopped and Arya felt herself lifted, carried, set down again. She could not focus her eyes, could barely see. The pain, the pain, her stomach nauseous, her head thick, her thought processes fading in and out.   She felt the phone in her pocket buzz, buzz again, over and over, the vibrations starting to sync with the pain, external pain, internal pain, she could not find the reality of the situation, just that the phone was moving, buzzing and she was buzzing, buzzing…

Rough hands reached into her pocket.  The phone was grabbed.

A laugh, low, as Meryn Trant handed the phone to an undefined figure next to him.

“Seems like someone  _ really _ wants to talk to our little Stark here. Wonder who it could be.”  Meryn could not keep the pride out of his voice. He caught her, a most unexpected little treat, something to add to fucking Cersei’s collection.  Collection of dead Starks.   _ That bitch better be happy, for fucking once. _

  
  


The man took the phone, scanned the messages.

He put it in his pocket and bent low over Arya’s form, putting his face up next to hers, taking in her breaths, looking at the bloodied tape on her face.  He reached up and gently smoothed some of the matted hair out of her face, traced her eyebrow with the tip of his index finger.

One gray eye opened as he did so and he was struck by the cool contrast of that eye, a gray stormcloud, surrounded by the impossible white of her skin, the purple bruises and dark red blood drying on her face.  The eyebrow furrowed, as if in recognition, and he continued to stroke it, letting his finger trail off onto her temple each time, and at the last he traced the edge of her face, the movement changing as it went over the tape and then smoothing again as it touched her skin, finishing under her chin.  

She was so small, and so broken, and so…different from Cersei.  Cersei, insane when he left her this morning, her cruelty growing, her laugh normally aphrodisiac to him but now mad, mad... Cersei... 

She started to thrash under his touch and he increased the pressure, stroking, still keeping it soft. A lover’s touch. A lover’s touch on her broken, broken face.

He smiled and straightened, staggered the slightest bit from the drink he’d had.

“Very well done, Meryn.  You’ve caught a rare creature. And she’s alive, for now.  Let’s wait and let Cersei know once our little wolf has come to, can talk a little bit.  Don’t tell Cersei yet…I will let her know.”

His smile deepened and his green eyes narrowed.

Meryn’s excitement flagged, slightly – he wanted his fucking reward from Cersei, and now, but there was no arguing with this one.  Especially when he was as drunk as Meryn had ever seen him.

“Very well, Jaime.”

Jaime Lannister looked at the broken girl beneath him, writhing, tried to keep his voice steady as he looked at the line of her legs under the cloth of her dress, from her hips down to white ankles, tied, emerging from the fabric.

“Oh, don’t worry, Meryn…you’ll get the credit you deserve. Go.”

At this Meryn nodded stiffly, walked out of the room.

Jaime smiled as the phone continued to buzz in his pocket, the frequency belying the urgency of the caller, the vibrations sounding in the almost empty room.

He knelt down in front of her wriggling form and resumed his exploration of her face; heart shaped, bloodstained, lovely in its brokenness. A broken bird, an animal trapped.  His to rescue.

“Little Stark.  Seems that  _ someone else _ wants you, too.”

He reached down and slowly unbound her ankles.

Cersei could wait.

 


	22. I won’t take no for an answer, darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * WARNING * violent, sexual violence, character death.

 

Cigarette crushed out and the smoke, interrupted, stopped its wavering up into the air, Illuminated in lazy late afternoon sun striping through the window, it wound itself into the clouds of tension covering the room. The three of them held a faint hope for familiar cat steps on the stairs.  They did not come.

Jaqen’s languid, indolent form had been replaced and he stretched like a nerve.

His voice, normally monotone and thrumming, pitched and escalated; the laziness of it gone, consonants enunciated and harsh.  Kate listened to the edges of it with a guilt throbbing in tandem with her blood pulsing.  Kate’s every muscle, all of them, were complicit in Arya’s _taking._ She hadn’t seen, _she hadn’t seen,_ and that in itself was a failure.  The notes and maps on the laptop in front of blurred as her eyes concentrated inwardly, looking back through time and up and down that block for a shadow misplaced, a shimmer in the normal street energy.

Jaqen scribbled as he listened, his handwriting all capital letters, slanted, elegant.  Addresses.  Parisian suburbs.  Two of them.  Eyes flashing, he thrust the paper onto Kate’s laptop, fluttering over her stilled fingers, breaking her out of her reverie.

She came to and summoned her calm, her efficiency, and mapped the addresses out, clicking into her normal persona; referencing them against the data contained in the sheets and documents that she had accessed. Found, mapped, routed.  She nodded to Jaqen.  He clicked the phone off after a few more words to Varys; swearing in Turkish, and turned to her.

Those eyes, his terrible eyes.  They saw through the calm, they saw her guilt...she looked down, cocked her head to Gaani.

“We” - his fingers jabbed at her, at an address -” _we_ will go _here_ first. Gaani...meet us here, but first see what you can back at the scene. _Carefully._ ”  Gaani patted his back, and created a moment of calm. He rested his hand on Jaqen’s shoulder, and bowed his head before whirling off and out of the apartment.

She couldn’t help but note that his voice, his eyes softened for Gaani.   _Outside, she was on the outside of their friendship..._

As Jaqen reloaded his weapons she saw his lips move in some silent prayer, a mantra.  She went through her own movements, calculating and recalculating as she armed herself.

She would have shivered but for her own willpower, holding herself tight, precise.

No words needed; they’d worked together for too long. _Still on the outside though._ They slipped down the stairs and into the late Paris afternoon, the sunbeams unaware of their mission, casting gold onto the concrete and chasing them into the entrance of the Metro, rays stopping short as they entered the pulsing underbelly of Paris.

 

 

 

Jaqen led the way.  He felt his legs hit stride. He felt steel move against him as he performed those absurd, ordinary movements to get into the Metro, felt his feet command the stairs and move to the platform.  He tried not to hear Kate, tried not to see her, even as he scanned the station for any sign of followers, of ears or eyes that they did not need complicating their hunt.

He allowed himself to slip into memory as the train came into the station. The bow of her lips, parted; the darkening where eyelashes curled and rose away from gray, gray eyes. Her voice, laughing at him, murmuring low words to him. _Arya..._ what had he done. He allowed himself a moment to think of her splayed in front of him, her eyes half closed, watching him as he explored her skin with his fingers, the scent of her rising in front of him.

_Arya…_

He brought his head back to task. They lurched and swayed as they got closer to their stop.  A Lannister connected storefront; Varys had information that Meryn Trant had been to this property several times before, using it as an ad-hoc meeting space, and property records attached it to Cersei’s father. Images brought up online showed a few points of entry; apartments above, a row of failed storefronts nearby.  The other property they’d check if this was null was similar; remarkable in nothing.

He turned his head to Kate as their station came closer. She stood with the caution and restraint of a high-wire performer: she emitted cool and competence, structure and poise.

So very different than his lovely, lovely, ravenous girl.

He wanted to torture her, softly, take his anger and worry out on her.  He had trusted her with his jewel, with his life; she let it slip away from her.  Her coolness spurred him to cruelty.

He moved closer to her and cocked his head to murmur in her ear. “So you thought a girl was not ready.”

Kate looked up at him, clear blue eyes, silent - no expression, no reaction.

He stepped closer and in one part of his brain marveled at her restraint, her training. He could see the individual hairs of her eyebrows, could see the beginnings of the lining of her forehead, the dark and pale valleys of her irises.

He breathed out, knowing that she’d feel his breath on him.

“So you thought a girl should not be with us, and decided to work as if she was not there, work as if you were alone, and with even less care than you’d give Gaani, myself.”

His voice was so low that she strained to catch it and he knew she’d have to move closer to him to hear.

“So you thought a girl was not worthy of the honor of watching you, of participating in her own revenge.  Does that make this easier for you, oh, Kate? Did you think that if a girl failed it would make me want you?”

He relished in his cruelty as he saw her pupils dilate and prick, as she weighed whether to respond or not; a flick of gratitude on her face as the walls of the station closed in and their stop relieved her.

She turned away from him to exit the train.

Her form angered him. The cool economy of her movement enflamed him. They exited the train and he stayed on her heels. He grabbed her by the shoulder, felt his fingers sink into the sinew of her.

“You will not fail if we find her. Do you understand. And if she is taken, you will fill your eyes with her.”

Kate’s eyes slowly moved up to meet his and she set her chin.

“It’s not my fault.” Her voice was low, came from her solar plexus, rose from her throat and fluttered into his ears.

“Jaqen. She should not have been with us.  Why did you bring her?”

He felt the layers of her question, of her accusation, felt the core of her question, the reasons behind it.

“You shouldn’t have brought her. You put her in danger. This is on you, Jaqen.”

The edges of her voice thinned and her last sentence pierced him, pierced his guilt.

He kept her eyes, searched them, mercilessly keeping them pinned to his gaze until he felt his blood rise and was compelled to move so that he did not physically harm her.

He moved, controlling his steps, and they exited the station silently and slipped into the maelstrom of humanity swirling outside, down the street and towards their first destination.

  
  


Gaani had changed his movements to an unfamiliar swagger, looked under the brim of the ballcap he had put on, hands a pocket as circled closer to the block that Kate had indicated.

He ruminated as he walked. Love. Death. Justice.

Gaani loved Jaqen; a brother, a family for them both.  Gaani kept him close - they worked together as soldiers for one common cause; they appreciated a sparseness of words and shared purpose.  Gaani’s open, placid nature meshed with Jaqens sardonic, lazy one and they were able to leapfrog the dark nature of their work by leaning on each other.

Arya. Gaani understood; the very real, organic presence of her was electric to Jaqen, he saw their actions and reactions, he saw the fluidity of their movements together.  He knew love. He had had it.

And he had lost it.

And so he mourned for Jaqen, he knew _this_ purgatory of fear.

He concentrated on the sidewalk in front of him, scanning the street, noticing the activity on the curb; Kate’s handiwork, discovered. Police swarming, photos snapping.  Blood pooling in the gutter, staining the trash that had flitted onto the street.

Gruesome. _Too much._ He glimpsed the body, the blood. No restraint; Kate had not shown restraint.  He knew what she was capable of; her clinical nature would allow her to kill someone in two strikes - this body was slashed, slashed as if she wanted to defile the corpse. _As if she was angry...._

Questions about Kate rose and fell for him as he searched and searched, passing the block, a slow swagger.  At worst he’d be taken for some low level street dealer, he made sure his swagger matched.

Around the block again.

Then he saw something he had missed before; an alcove with a few bloody marks against a wall.  The scarf Arya had wound around her head lay on the ground.

A few red drips and drag marks to the street, heading towards the southern lane.

Gaani took his phone out, feigning sending a text, and took pictures of the blood. He picked up the scarf and pocketed it.

He looked at the drops on the sidewalk and tried to divine a constellation in them, some order in their appearance on the cement, her fortune spelled out.

 _Live, Arya._ Her mortality dripped out on display in front of him. He summoned his protectors, those images of his family, his raison d’etre and motivation: they danced in his memory and he sent up a silent plea to them.   _That Jaqen not suffer a loss as he did,_ that their love, usually enveloping him, protecting him, could find its way to one small female form, dark and light and flashing, insolent, humorous, determined.

A text to Jaqen and he changed his direction and cadence and started to lope towards the station. He kept his hand around the scarf in his pocket.  He’d meet them there, wherever they were.

  


 

Jaime considered his captive.  She was conscious, but barely, and he watched her eyes flutter open and closed, breathing burbling through the blood of her nose.

She seemed impossibly small to him, her wrists like twigs, the natural fall of her hands curved.

He frowned; he had drunk wine with Cersei earlier and it was clouding his thoughts. The bourbon he’d drunk afterwards completely obscuring them. The fight he’d had with Cersei opened his capillaries and he felt a flood of defiance.  Cersei...so difficult, hard to capture, hard to keep.  

_Fuck her._

He’d always loved her, always, always - stayed true to her even as she fucked her way to the top of the Baratheon food chain, torturing him with details of Robert Baratheon’s hands on her, or worse, of her mouth on him.  Jaime somehow was able to minimize her cruelty; it was one of the facets of her personality, and he accepted it because it created her in all of her complexity.  It turned him on even as it tortured him.

Cersei...Cersei, going too far. He had watched her hunger for power for years, didn’t know what to do with it when it was in her hands...kept grabbing for more with her golden fingers...

And here he was, with this girl, this Stark girl splayed and broken in front of him.  The Starks, a thorn in Cersei’s side for years. An irrational hatred borne from her jealousy of Lyanna - even though Cersei detested Robert, she wanted him to desire no one else but her.  Cersei had concentrated singlemindedly on eliminating Starks after Robert had died - too dangerous to do it while he was alive.  Ned Stark had been one of the only people that Robert respected - but once Robert was gone, Cersei swooped in and quickly took them out.

No one knew about the Stark girl except useless, soulless Trant. He considered her. He wondered, for a moment, what it was like to lose his control, to stray from Cersei, Cersei...

He allowed his eyes to move up his captive’s form, bound, still, long;  frowned at the dress that covered her, at the blood on her, slight rise and fall of her as she labored through her breaths, blood pooling near her head and streaking her body, drying to carmine over her white skin.

That white skin, that soft white skin, so dirty, so soiled.

His hands moved of their own volition towards it. He reached down to her ankle and grabbed the edge of the dress, saw her eyes flutter open and catch on him, trying to summon her power to protest.

The movement inflamed him and he took both hands and ripped up from the bottom, taking in the length of her legs, her calves, her knees and up to her thighs.  The sound of the cloth ripping, the resistance in his hands...satisfying and he continued to rip until he reached a seam and summoned more muscle to rip up, past a sliver of silk covering her sex, past the valley of her stomach and the ridges of her ribs, past her breasts, spilling slightly out of the bra that held them.  He ripped until he reached the neck of her dress and forced that the resistance of the last seam open.

She lay in front of him coolly contrasting with the darkness of the mostly empty room.

She started to struggle; he could see her eyes open as she realized what he had done, what he could do, and he stepped back and watched the muscles interplay as she writhed, protested.  The acrid scent of fear rose up from her.

She could not move enough, she could not make any sounds beyond strangled noises, the tape gagging her.

_Poor, bloody little broken Stark girl.  Feral creature._

Under her dress swathes of blood despoiled her skin.

He wanted that skin. He wanted her cleaned, wanted to see the milky glow of it.

The liquor simmered in him and he throbbed as he looked at her and then scanned the room to see what implements that he had at his command.

He ripped a piece of the dress off and moved to a sink at the back of the room, the little kitchenette in the retail space.  He was in the backroom of a storefront; they’d purchased this property and several others just like it, bought it to keep during an economic downturn when the government was begging for redevelopment in the poorest neighborhoods. Pennies on the dollar.  He could hear the street life outside but the windows were covered up front and the little room in the back insulated completely from any passerby.  

He wet the piece of cloth in the sink and moved back to her, still writhing, trying to roll, trying to sit up.  He could see her wince as she moved: _oh broken thing, do not try._

He settled down close to her feet, his erection raging against his pants, as he considered the line of her legs.

He started to clean her feet, blood pooling down by her ankles, taking a perverse satisfaction as the skin showed whiter, and whiter; the ankles, cleaned.  She stopped struggling and he looked up to see her eyes burning with hatred, swollen with pain, her face covered with blood.

_Oh I’ll clean that pretty face last of all, my darling little Stark, little wild animal._

The cloth needed to be rinsed to get that skin as clean as he wanted it; he was close to her knees by now and he rose, rinsed it, and came back to consider her.

His erection was constrained, constrained by his pants and he felt himself aching for this new creature, helpless in front of him.

Enough, then...l _et’s enjoy this moment._  His head was spinning from the liquor and from the movement of his blood to his cock.

He took his pants off and continued to wash her.

The cloth left a trail of moisture and he moved up her thighs; the muscles underneath overlaid by a layer of softness; it gave as he wiped it, and his movements became tender.

As he reached the slip of underwear covering her sex he nearly groaned out loud and slipped his fingers along the edges around the edges of it, feeling the heat near her sex, emanating out; he dipped his head down to smell her, see her, and noted the design on the silk; little piece of elastic slipping out; _these have been pulled off of her before._

He dropped the cloth and brought both of his hands up her thighs, tracing them.

His prey struggled anew, tried to twist out of his reach, her breaths grabbing at the air around her, her noises trying to break past the plastic wall the tape had provided.

With one hand he pressed her pelvis down, and he reached down to himself as he watched her struggle try to intensify.

He could not overcome the blackness, somewhere in his rational mind he thought of Cersei’s face twisted in anger and he triumphed against it, raged against it: _my turn, darling. You’ve had yours._

With a particularly vicious push against his broken creature in front of him, his other hand reached down to stroke himself.

_My turn, darling._

  
  


His limbs slacken, and his head tilts to the side.

No one notices, initially; the classroom around him buzzes with the low tones of pencils scribbling.  AP Physics is no joke; this class does not hum with the same energy that, say, _history_ would.  

He folds to the side and as he does so his eyes, close, start to twitch.

A student, a friend looks to him and starts to move towards him to stabilize him.

He comes to with a gasp, eyes widened.

_Arya..._

Bran staggers out of his seat, runs out of class as his teacher finishes the equation while facing the board, none the wiser.

Outside of class, he pulls out his phone and sends a text to Sansa.

_They’ve got her. I saw it. Blood.._

He leans up against the bank of lockers and lets his fear wash over him.

 

 

Sansa had paperwork spread out in front of her; budgets and grant applications - Willas’ wealth allowed her to be _kept,_ but she needed to _work_.  A pen twitched in her hand as she took notes.  Everyone needed something in Chicago.

The Chicago philanthropic community had snapped her up: beautiful, well-spoken, dedicated...and enough fun to make the most dry board meeting just a teensy bit more exciting.  Sansa found herself...overcommitted.

She read the latest grant application and frowned as her phone buzzed on the table.

Her eyes opened widely as she read Bran’s text and the pen tumbled to the table.

She fought back a sudden rush of bile, hot, bitter acid to her throat.

 

 

 

Petyr stopped, with the phone held to his ear, walking in his master suite between the bedroom and the bathroom.

 _That fucking bitch._ Tywin had been more difficult to work with, when he’d had the occasion - but Cersei was just a cunt in the way of whatever payday he’d get.  

He oiled his voice to suit the occasion.

“Cersei, darling. I know she’s...easy to grab, at the moment.  Doubt she’s with anyone.”

He paused; a mirror in front of him.  He looked at his eyes, smoothed his eyebrows, left his fingers trailing his goatee.  Frowned. That needs to be cut down...

“No...it will be simple - in and out.  I’m sure, quite sure, that I’ll be able to tease her out into the open.”

He endured a few seconds of Cersei, blistering away. He rolled his eyes, twiddled with his tie: _shut up, you fucking cunt._

He had already mapped out his next steps; Cersei would get what she wanted, or what she didn’t know yet she wanted.   _And so would he..._

Finally.  He made the appropriate noises with Cersei, and sat down at his laptop.  

He allowed the edges of a smile to play out on his face as he cradled his phone, searched for a contact.  As he listened - the young blonde and the young redhead, a weakness of his, he’d admit it - to the women in his living room, laughing, breathy, he sent a text to his biggest weakness.

 

_Paris tomorrow night, red-eye._

_Pack your bags. Tickets are go._

_I won’t take no for an answer darling, just four days._

_I’ll send a car for you at 9 p.m.  Be ready._

 

Sansa was a dutiful child, she’d never directly disobey an order. He turned off his ringer. If she had any further questions for him she could wait for a reply.

He thought about the women in the front room.  He could hear them, their voices rising and falling. The blonde was common, almost coarse, but she had a certain _je ne sais quois_ about her.  The eyes, maybe it was her eyes - almost slanted, laughing. The redhead was a pale imitation of what he wanted her to be, but she’d do.   _Can’t fake grace_ , he thought, and he allowed the images in his head to surface: a white wrist, a graceful neck, the curve of a breast wrapped in ivory silk, a faint wafting of sunshine, money and the green, sweet scent of a fig picked so freshly that a leaf hangs off the stem...  

Petyr took one last look at himself in the mirror, and drawing a breath, lingered his mind’s eye around that breast, how it swelled to ripeness, the soft skin above it….he steeled himself. Fortified, he walked out into the living room of his flat to do some... _comparative research_.

 

 

 

Jaqen’s steps were long, fast. Purposeful. He loped up the sidewalk; they were not far from the first building they needed to check. Sad side streets of Parisian suburbs. The movement on the street was less purposeful than the middle of the city; no rushing tourists, not as many workers.  He looked; he saw what he needed to see. At the bottom of his stomach, emanating from him was the feeling that they were in the wrong place, wasting their time.

 _Arya. Arya. Arya._ He allowed himself the luxury of letting his heartbeat thud to the syllables of her name, wallowed in himself momentarily even as his physical being was propelled forward.

He knew Kate was behind him, didn’t even turn back to look.  He could hear her footsteps, but barely; Kate was light and stealthy until she gained her target, and then her armor clicked over her and she became fearsome, single-minded.

Kate. Kate. A man does not know when she became so entangled. He pushed the thought aside: not for today, not the right time.  

They came to their destination and slowed, circling the block, looking at windows, openings, doors.  A back alley, scribbled with black spray paint and decorated with broken glass.  The smudge of rotting produce, long left behind, studded one wall.  Jaqen glanced quickly at the back windows and then took a longer look in, examined the spiderwebs on the back door.  

He stood for a moment, his ear cocked by the door, and he motioned for Kate to walk away with disdain.

Kate walked towards the front, casually.  She glanced in through the holes in the paper like a curious resident, wondering what would be coming to her neighborhood, and then put the phone to her ear, faked a quick conversation.

She burned, she burned hot and cold, but _fuck him_ if he’d see it.

They walked towards each other, no need for words: there’s nothing here.

Increasing their speed, they headed towards the Metro station, falling into step, unwittingly.

 

 

 

_She moves._

Jaime felt the skin under his fingertips move as Arya struggled anew; the movement broke his train of thought, brought the wider picture into focus.  He had only seen the white thighs, the blood; he looked further at this woman in front of him and saw the dirty floor she lay on, the rubbish in the corner.  The front doors hadn’t been unlocked in years.  The back door was shut.  Bolted?  Probably not, Trant had just walked out the door….He’d better check.

He picked up the cloth he’d been cleaning her with and secured the room.  His erection was raging, he jutted in front of himself; the sight of it when he looked down increased his speed.   _Oh, he’d finish cleaning her alright._ He wet the cloth again and moved closer to her head, looking at the pathetic sight of the tape, stuck to her face, her hair.

Her eyes flashed as his cock came closer to her face; he took the washcloth and tenderly wiped, avoiding broken skin, her forehead down to her cheeks, to the most persistent, caked on blood near the side of her face and under her chin.

Her skin was cold.

As he cleaned her she thrashed, slightly, but he noticed that her energy was flagging.

_Little darling._

_Save yourself for me._

He took his cock and pushed it along her side, tracing her body with himself, watching the movement stutter as he pulled himself down her body.

_So very different._

The texture of her skin was different; where Cersei’s skin was like golden silk, this one was like white velvet.  The fine hairs around her sex were dark, dark.  He could see the blue veins underneath the skin on her arms.  Her nipples, again different - although Cersei’s nipples always stiffened under his touch, these were slack.

Different fingers, different toes.  A different mouth, a different tongue under that tape.   _The idea..._ he drew his breath in.

She was powerless, she vacillated from pathetic fight to weakness.

He leaned his head down, pulled one of those foreign, Northern nipples into his mouth and started to suck as he looked up at her face, trying to fight.  His hands moved up and down whatever flesh he could reach, and he whipped himself into a frenzy.  He looked at the shadow of her eyelashes against her cheeks; she had shut her eyes, tried to shut him out.

_Slow down.  Enjoy._

The room whirled for him; the wine had finally all hit him, the woman in front of him laid out like a doll.  

He stood up from her, stroking himself, watching her.

_Darling, my little animal. I’ll take you so many different times tonight._

The thought enflamed him, he saw red and he could not stop himself; he felt the tangible, wet evidence of his want pulse out of his cock and as he came he moved, he stood over her so that it would collect on the hollows of her stomach and down her pelvis, finishing with a last spurt where the fine black hairs met the white of her pelvis.

Gasping, gasping, he allowed himself a few minutes to recover.

He ignored the buzzing of his phone; out of the corner of his eye he could see it was Cersei’s number.

 _So she wants me, now_...the thought of Cersei, angry, looking for him…

He wiped himself carefully, and looked at the eyelashes of his prey; her eyes had snapped shut when he came closer.  He wiped himself with his hand and smeared it on her torso; the light shone differently off the curves of her body where he had soiled her.

She had stopped struggling; her body had slackened, her breathing had slowed and for a split second she looked as if she were only sleeping.

 

_And everything changed._

 

For the briefest moment he flashed on a memory of Myrcella, napping.  Myrcella, his Myrcella... his young girl, just a bit older than the woman laid out in front of him.  It was the curve of her head, something about her neck, the stem of a tulip, gently holding the flower...

The clouds of his orgasm vanished with the thought and he shook himself, slightly, shook his head, looked down at his half hard member.  His breathing had slowed, slowed to normal pace, and the sharp, vivid explosion of himself had cleared his head, cleared some of the fog of alcohol out of his system.

He breathed in.

_For God’s sake…for fuck’s sake...what am I…._

He crouched and took her in for a moment, looked at her and her humanity started to appear to him, to seep through his edges, and the fragility that had provoked him a few moments ago now shamed him.

_What was he doing…_

His panic rose.  What was he about to do? What had he just done?

Jaime moved to the side of the room and vomited.

He moved to his pants, put them on, looked around the room.  His lust had vanished, disappeared into a cold ball of regret, a turgid roiling of nausea.   _An almost unconscious girl. The same age as his own daughter, not that she knew she was his…._ He needed to get her out of here, needed to make sure she got taken care of...cover her…warm her...her ripped dress was useless, but there were some moving blankets in the back of the room, gray, filthy.

They’d have to do.

He shook out two of the blankets and took them over to her.  PIcking up her form, he wrapped her in them: warm her, warm her up.  There was still blood, oozing down from the side of her head down her neck. He pressed the cloth he had used to wash her with against the wound, giving pressure; as he did so he heard a little noise come from her mouth.  A most pathetic twitching, struggle, and for a moment time stopped as those gray eyes opened.

 

_They saw him._

 

He closed his own eyes to hide, and kept the pressure on, checking until there was no more blood.

He had to get rid of her, he had to get her out of here. He had to save her.

His car, his car...he’d bring it around, he’d get her out of here….

Propping her up against a wall, wrapped in the gray moving blankets, he moved quickly towards the door, reaching for the keys he hoped were still in his pants pocket.  There.  With a last look at her form, he reached and unbolted the door.  He’d dump her off at a hospital. Right outside, and drive off.  Fuck Cersei.  Fuck Meryn.  He could pay off Meryn, no one would be the wiser.  Fuck them all. _Fuck all of this._

He was breathing deeply, breathing in his own salvation.  Too late, he thought bitterly to himself, and he took a look back at her form, up against the wall. To the car...get the car and take her away from here...from his unspeakable acts...

 

He slipped outside of the back door into the alley and into the fading light of day.

Into the terrible eyes, the golden form of a man who looked possessed; a slight woman was behind him.

The last thing he saw were the eyes of an assassin.  Instead of the cold, impersonal light of a trained killer, he realized he was looking into the eyes of her lover.  He felt it. _He_ loved. He knew love.  He knew another lover when he saw one, knew the hot rage, the endless depth of emotion.

 

Jaqen’s jaw was set, his lips curled up over clenched teeth and his green-blue eyes slitted in rage.  Jaime’s blood spattered the alleyway as Jaqen shot him, over and over and over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaackkkk!
> 
> * shivers *
> 
> please don't hate me!
> 
> pretty intense. would love your thoughts. xo


	23. Red Shoes

 

The body that was once Jaime Lannister was reduced to a mass of tissue, of bones, to the blood that pooled out from his body.  Jaqen moved around it and grabbed the back door that Jaime had just walked out of and slowly, slowly eased it open and looked around the room.

His love. _His love_. He saw her. Saw her body, loosely wrapped, head and shoulders propped against the wall, her head lolling to the side.  Saw her ankles, barefeet, looking impossibly vulnerable. Saw the lack of response, the closed eyes.

Horror drew him back, loosed him - an arrow, to her side. He moved impossibly fast to her, to her sad face, a silver line of tape covering her mouth, the shadow of blood on her skin.

He pulled her into him and with one hand reached for her pulsepoint, so often kissed, felt her life gently thump under his fingers.  

A girl is alive.

Oh oh….

 _Arya Arya Arya Arya._ He whispered her name as he kissed her head, over and over, using his body as a shield, wrapping around her.

 _A shield given too late._ He felt tears roll down his face, hot, wet. _Oh lovely girl..._

She fluttered, she fluttered and when she recognized Jaqen she leaned her body into him, small sobs starting to wrack her body, get stuck in her gagged mouth, strange sounds that could not escape.

“A girl is...a girl is alive, oh Arya…”

He fought the urge to crush her in his arms, _oh lovely girl! Fragile!_

For one single moment, a nanosecond, he was suspended in space and time, his arms around her, his face buried in her hair, in her, in her…

Kate appeared silently at his side; Jaqen looked up and realized that she had dragged Jaime into the room, bolted the door.  She took Arya’s face and examined the tape, not meeting the gray eyes that looked out at her and then back at Jaqen.

“I don’t think you can possibly hate me more - let me take care of this.”  With one measured movement, precise, Kate pulled the tape off of Arya’s face as gently as she could.

Arya’s mouth, freed; she gasped, gasped.

Jaqen reached for her mouth and kissed the air above it, reached down a millimeter lower and brushed her lips as gently, gently as he could and then tucked her into him.

“Jaime…” It came out like a whisper from her mouth.

“He is dead, lovely girl.  Was he alone? You must tell me.”  Jaqen realized that he had to move, had to make his next move. “Kate, call Varys, We must take her.  And Gaani - have Gaani get his friend to pick us up. And water, Kate, find some water here...”  

Kate nodded; her phone was already in her hand and she quickly moved to the back of the room, speaking in low tones.

“Arya, was he alone? What did he do to you?” Jaqen spoke softly to her, caressing the unsullied side of her head.

Arya rallied in his arms, still covered by the blanket.

“Jaqen, my hands...tied….Meryn Trant...he grabbed me...then Jaime..”

He reached to pull the blankets off of her, to reach her hands.  As it fell off he saw her flesh, the tattered dress hanging.

Her small body, in front of him, limp and weak - a sticky, cloudy wetness all over it...defiled. His rage rose, consumed him, and he shook as he tried to control his movements, not crush her even though all he wanted to do was pull her into him as tightly as he could.

Control. Exhale.

Kate raised her eyebrow at him for the smallest moment.

“Gaani’s on the way. We’ll have a driver. Let me figure out where we’re taking her. And sorry, but we need to handle this.” She gestured at Jaime’s body.

Jaqen kissed Arya and settled her; she gave him the weakest smile that he’d ever seen and his heart broke all over again.

“That sick fuck...Jaqen...thank you…”

He felt himself soar as the smallest bit of normalcy, of defiance crept into her voice…

He could not bear to ask the next question.  “Arya...did he...rape you?”

She shook her head, slightly. “He pulled his cock out over me. But he didn’t...not in me…”

That was no comfort to Jaqen and he walked over to Jaime Lannisters body and gave it three swift kicks until he realized that Kate was staring at him with those cold, calculating eyes.

Together he and Kate stripped Jaime’s phone, wallet, looked through the room for information.  Jaime’s head rolled as his body was roughly handled, his blood still spreading underneath him.  Green eyes looked up unseeing, unable to see the wrath that emanated from Jaqen.

He could not extract more punishment on the form that was Jaime.  For a moment he wished that he had taken his time killing him, allowing the pain to crystallize, burst and radiate. _Should have tortured him._ The sudden rush of bullets seemed far too humane.

Jaqen looked at the corpse with the blackest hatred he could ever remember feeling.  

_Worthless, useless human._

He let Kate finish handling the body and curled himself back around Arya’s shivering form, pulled her into him, tucking her feet under her and waiting, waiting for Gaani to surface.

It seemed like hours, measured by her ragged breaths mercifully warming his neck as he covered as much of her body as he could, looking at every detail of her he could see while Kate kept a steady murmuring on the phone to Varys.

A car sounded in the alley and Kate rushed to check the door and let Gaani in. They picked up Arya gently but she moved her feet so that she could stand.  

“No. I can walk. My head hurts...my legs are fine.” Her voice was weak but clear and she had mustered a bit of a smile, and it took everything Jaqen had not to pick her up and protect her, oh lovely girl...

She was wobbly, she was woozy, but it seemed that she drew every particle of strength that she could muster and walked with their aid to the back of the waiting car.  Jaqen willed her his strength...and with each footfall his relief burst through him.

Arya Stark is strong.  She will rise.

_And the Lannisters will pay, pay for this._

The driver didn’t look back as Jaqen shut the final door.  Kate gave clear, crisp directions. Varys had a doctor that they could take her to - no questions asked.

Arya’s voice was only a whisper but it pierced him.  “I will kill her. Oh Jaqen, you have to wait for me. Please.”

Jaqen clutched Arya gently as they moved out of the alley and into the early evening traffic and kissed the top of her head, not wiping any of her blood off of his lips when they ventured lower.

 

 

 

Jon shifted on his stomach, moved the scope over.   _There was that man again._ Such an incongruous figure to be spotted in the village, easily towering a foot over everyone else. Western. Massive. Imposing. Jon watched his movements.  For such a big man, he was quick. He seemed to have business with many of the men there, some of them known terrorists, nestled in the relatively pastoral farm community of Mosahi.. _.this can’t be good._

Jon watched him for several more minutes, lying prone in their hideout up in the brown mountains that stood sentry to the sadness of Kabul and the surrounding villages.  The dust wasn’t as bad up here. It was a strange interlude in his mission; Mosahi had a river running through it, and scoping the green fields and the village from their vantage point in the mountains above seemed like a completely different planet than being on base, attacked by sandflies and coughing through the constant fog of dust that clung to them, clung to every part of them.  Further past Mosahi was Kabul, dangerous and busy Kabul.  Something was happening here...that man...he had no business with any of the farmers still trying to hold their living together….they’d better check again.

“That guy looks like he gets bigger every time we see him…” Sam whistled, low, under his breath.

“I know.  What the hell is this giant doing with our little friends?”  

Jon took another look through the scope and frowned.  That caricature of a man, so grotesquely drawn, gave him the shivers.  He pulled out a radio and let command know that he was there...again.   _Something was off…_

They stayed on the ground, the dust swirling around them, getting in their nostrils, their ears, their eyes.  Relief came a bit later and Jon and Sam extricated themselves from their post and made their way to where they’d parked their vehicle, a quarter mile away.

Still there.  Good.  


End of watch, and time to eat.  Sam always moved a bit faster when they were headed _towards_ the mess.  They joked around a little bit.  Sam was...exceptional... in many ways, but didn’t have the same level of physical strength that some of their other brothers had. He’d transformed, though, over the year - he was shaped like a great big lumbering bear.  He was loyal, though - Jon wanted no one else by his side.

They ate dinner, sitting in the hall, all of their energy gone. After dinner Jon retreated to his bunk.  Every day stretched out in a haze of blinding sunlight, dust and worry; every night passed with a speed and quickness that did not allow his muscles to relax and unfurl enough to ready themselves for the next day.  

The mission had been incredibly demoralizing. They were fighting against a surprisingly well-armed opponent - they couldn’t account for the weaponry that they were seeing.  It didn’t add up. And every time there seemed to be an opening for their targets, children would run out into the street.  An increased sensitivity to civilian damage had come about after an incredibly damaging image was released of a child getting caught in crossfire.

Wish they could have seen us _after_ that happened, Jon thought, thinking of the sense of gloom that hung over his company after that incident.   _Children. They’re using children. Of course they are...still..._ One of the children that they had taken out had been so familiar to the company that they’d nicknamed him weeks before the hit.   _Red Shoes._ Red Shoes had a small dog that followed him everywhere. Red Shoes was a talkative, friendly kid and the village had seemed to have a soft spot for him. Red Shoes was still small enough to reach for his mother’s hand when they were walking down the road.

Red Shoes had run out into the road, crying, right as they took out a valuable group of fighters not fifteen feet away from him. Too late to stop the action. Jon and his brothers didn’t try to hide their tears.

The image of Red Shoes, bloody in his mother’s arms, was sent out as propaganda in the enemy’s recruiting materials.

_Brutal._

Before he went to sleep, he rifled through his things for his phone. Hadn’t checked it in a few days.

_Arya._

Jon’s face crinkled as he read her text.   _Yes, stay safe...you too, little one...hear this._..he could not text her back, sent his thoughts out to the universe with the image of her face in his mind.

Their mission was almost done. He hoped.

He’d catch her as soon as he was able to.

  
  


 

 

Sansa had read Petyr’s text with equal measures of trepidation and irritation: _who does he think he is? Tomorrow! “Tickets are go”!_

She could practically hear his voice oozing through the words on her phone, that studied insolence, suggestiveness and mockery overlaid by a transparent veil of faked subservience.   _Oh Petyr_ ...he thinks he has the upper hand… _Goddammit, he does…_ Sansa grimaced.  

That heady feeling of control, of the power she’d felt over him before had vanished, just disappeared, in that one single moment at the restaurant with him yesterday. She knew the exact moment, had been rewinding it in her mind to try to figure out how to reacquire that power... see exactly how she had lost it.  What would she need to do to bring him back under her control…

_I won’t take no for an answer darling_

A horrible idea was formulating in her head and she pushed it aside.   _Cross that bridge when we need to…_

Sansa scrolled past his message and onto the unanswered messages that she’d sent to her sister.

Arya not answering her texts was not unusual but it was torturous in the face of Bran’s vision, of Arya’s last text to her, and of Petyr’s boldness. _Oh Arya!_ She wished that she could shake the feelings that had gripped her throat, made it hard for her to swallow.  That unfamiliar taste of fear had permeated Sansa’s life in the past few weeks - the cream and sweet of her days had curdled and it was exhausting, just _exhausting_ to try to sort through all of this. A sudden jaunt to Paris...lie upon lie told to Willas, watching confusion cloud his sweet face only to be replaced by his usual indulgence, to Margaery who she’d never kept _anything_ from…

 _...Yes, might as well take up Petyr’s little offer and do a little shopping while she was at it..._ Sansa heard the lies fall past her own mouth dropping like overripe fruit from a tree. She had never felt less like walking through the streets of Paris in her life...

At least she’d be able to see Arya.   _And that man._ At least she’d be able to meet this Jaqen, try to understand the madness that had gripped her sister. She’d see if she could break through the stubborn, defiant little sister that she’d known and try to talk some _sense_ into her for once. _And hopefully bring her home…_ keep her close, try and stop all of this...all of this...whatever it was they were entangled in.

 _Yes_. Make this insane trip to Paris. See Arya, keep an eye on Petyr...and then get Arya out of there, take that man with her if she needed to, and try to recreate some version of their universe that didn’t involve terror and murder and visions...back to neat, orderly…

Bring her home.

So far Sansa had kept her word to Arya. She hadn’t called in their older brothers.  Robb wouldn’t be able to sway Arya.  But Jon could, if he needed to.  Jon and Arya had entangled when they were children. Their bond was something that none of the other siblings shared.  If she needed him...Jon would come through. Jon always did, and especially for Arya.

Two secrets in her arsenal, then.  One possible way to defeat Petyr at his own game, but make him think that he’d won. _Oh he’d love that._  She grimaced at the thought. And possibly an ally in the face of Arya’s will.

Sansa pulled a few more things from her top drawer and fit the lace neatly into her suitcase.  Maybe this would help...

_Paris...tickets are go._

_Be ready._

She shuddered.

  
  
  


Varys had found a _sympathetic_ doctor in his web of contacts. A silent one. The clinic was only a few minutes away from the Lannister storefront and Arya was silent as they drove, her head curled against Jaqen’s shoulder as they made their way through the streets.  The doctor, a slight, stern man, was waiting for them outside as their driver pulled up to the back of the day clinic.  

She resisted any help to walk through the door and each shuffling, slow step felt like the slash of a whip against his skin.   _His fault, his fault_...Kate’s words ran through his head, and he summoned his control not to swoop Arya in his arms and carry her through the door.

Very well. His lovely girl would walk, then. As she wishes.

Once Gaani was able to see Arya walk he kissed her forehead and gathered Kate, still mollified, to go back to the apartment and regroup.  He reached for Jaqen.

“My brother. This will pass. She is alive, she will be fine. We will work in the background, preparing, for the next steps.”

Gaani and Kate got back into the car and the faceless driver pulled out and vanished into the street.

The doctor asked no questions.

He cleaned the wounds on her head quickly, quietly, his thin fingers moving over a gash near her temple.  Jaqen looked at her face, the white skin reflecting some of the fluorescent lights and looking almost jaundiced as the yellowish lights bounced off her skin.  He focused in on the shadow created where the dark eyelashes brushed against her skin as Arya kept her eyes closed and kept his fingers tangled in hers as she winced when the doctor applied a topical anesthetic and stitched her wounds, cleaning the cuts and scrapes on her body, and giving her a muscle relaxer.

His hands were efficient, merciless - they flitted over her body and each wound like an assembly-line robot. He tested each limb, frowning as he encountered Jaime Lannister’s seed on her stomach, and with clean strokes, wiped her body down completely. He hooked her up to some saline and brought several hospital blankets out to her to keep her warm.

She gave Jaqen a lazy smile as her eyes fluttered open for a moment before he saw her heavy lids become too much and close over her eyes once again.

When she was cleaned up the doctor fired at Jaqen in rapid French.  “Elle a une commotion cérébrale et probablement quelques côtes cassées. A besoin de quelques fluides et devrait reposer ici ce soir. Voulez-vous rester avec elle?”

 _Concussion. Broken ribs. Fluids._ Jaqen could understand but his thoughts were too busy to reply back to the man in French.  He merely looked at him until he found his voice.

“Yes, tonight we will stay here, together.” Jaqen’s head dipped in a small bow and he resumed his post immediately at her side, focusing on each small eyelash, how they all curled like plants reaching towards the light, like they could not bear the sweetness of her skin...

The doctor vanished for a moment and returned with a bottle of water for Jaqen. He conjured his first bit of emotion for the day, delivered in broken English and a small smile at Jaqen’s worried face.

“She is...very strong, monsieur. She will be fine.  She needs some peace, quiet, safety.  Rest, rest tonight. We will lock you into the clinic for the evening - most of the staff will be leaving in a few minutes; the saline should be finished at that point, we will take it off.  Go, get some food now, come back and just stay by her side tonight.”

A man knows many languages. A man can communicate with the nod of his head, or the twitch of a finger.  Yet at that moment, a man could not find the words in him needed to express his gratitude for the...resilience...of a lovely girl.  He could only murmur a quick _merci mille fois_ to the doctor and move quickly out the door to grab something to eat.

A man could not believe how much lighter the air felt on his skin, even as it was the tangibly hot and humid air of a late Parisian summer - how much brighter everything looked, even as the dusk was falling and shadows grew.

He returned with some fruit, cheese, water and set up his chair by Arya’s bed, noting that she was freed of the saline and now slept untethered to anything, as if she was in her own bed.  He watched her hands and feet twitch in sleep and her eyes move quickly under their lids. Her lips moved and he watched, fascinated, as she drew in her lower lip slightly and he marveled at how much he wanted to feel its softness, brush up against it. He stilled himself.

As the clinic lights turned off and the footfalls of curious staff walking by the room came to silence, he started to relax in the quieting evening.  He tested the door and slipped a chair underneath the door handle to reinforce the lock.

 _Arya._ Facing that man, finding him lacking, walking away from a beating that left her with a concussion and 24 staples along the line of her scalp.

Arya, laid out on the bed, her limbs strangely quieted; the curve of her head and neck, the graceful line of her body moving him even at that moment to a point beyond sexualization.  He felt worship for her limbs, her form, _they were his,_ he felt his love wash over him mixed with the desire to keep her safe and whole. _Possess her, keep her._

He couldn’t stay away any longer.  

He slipped his body into the space available on her small hospital bed and curled himself completely up against her, cognizant of each and every separation of their skin. He gently, gently put an arm around her and oh the feeling of her instinctively pulling to him, tucking against him, even in sleep, her warmth calling to him, her smell overriding the strange antiseptic scent of her wounds.

Coiled up around her, his heart slowing to match her heartbeat, he closed his eyes and prayed.

  
  
  
  


Cersei Lannister was pacing, now, and she started as the door opened and fairly hissed when she saw who it was. _The wrong fool walked in._

Meryn shrugged off her visible disappointment. _He’s puffed up like a fucking pigeon._

“Where, pray tell, have you been all afternoon?  And where the hell is Jaime? He’s not answering my texts.”  Cersei carefully, carefully modulated her voice. _If it fucking killed her._  After the. _..discussion.._ .that she’d had with Jaime this morning, she was trying to be more careful. _Rational._ If only he was sitting across the room right now...he’d be so proud. He’d take her there and then. If only he knew how angry she was at Meryn Fucking Trant and his stupid, stupid face, slack-jawed and full of himself in front of her…and how well she was controlling herself... _he’d take her in front of Meryn Fucking Trant_...let him watch...

_...Where is he…._

Meryn saw her irritation and thought of how he left Jaime, almost staggering as he walked, the look on his face as he looked at the Stark bitch laid out in front of him, practically salivating. A piece of meat. Cersei won’t like this one little bit. _Serves her too right, that cunt._

 

“Oh, Jaime...he has some business to attend to. Asked me not to spoil a surprise for you.”  He tried to act casual, to still the mockery rising up in him as he watched Cersei hit boiling and yet strangely swallow it. _Why is she acting like this?_

“Well, Meryn Trant, did he say when he’d be back?”  She paced back toward the window, not wanting to spend another second looking at his red, hideous face. _Where is he._

“No, Cersei. But I can’t imagine that his business would take all night.”  Meryn swallowed his smile.   _That Stark bitch was so bloody, she wouldn’t last all night._

Cersei gripped the wrought iron railing around the windowsill until her knuckles ached.

“Go. Do not come back to me unless he’s with you. And if you see him...tell him that his _business_ is _here_ .”   _Where is he. Where is he._

Meryn could not suppress a laugh at that and whirled on his heel to leave the room before it erupted into something that he’d regret even more, later.

At the window, Cersei heard his footsteps fade and as she looked out the window, she felt the hot tears of...something, some emotion...well up and fall down her face.  Something was wrong. He’d never been so angry as to _completely_ ignore her before. That fight...this morning...some glint in his eye that she didn’t recognize. _Where is he._ Now this.  What had she driven Jaime to? _Where is he._

She stayed at the window until the room grew completely dark and her legs could no longer hold her and then moved in the dark room to one of Robert’s overstuffed chairs and curled into a ball, her jaw a steel line, her fists buried in the tassels of one of Robert’s ridiculous pillows.  Tears tracked down her face and she stared blankly into the black corner of the room.

 

_Where is he._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merci mille fois to ladygrey
> 
> so.
> 
> here we go. 
> 
> we're done with the old version - this is almost all newly written.


	24. pitiless

 

Arya woke up in the dark clinic room.

Her body was still pulsing pain, but it was muted as if through cotton-wool.  She felt the hard edges of the hospital bed railing against her one side, felt a twinge of pain as she moved her head.

Towards the scent of her lover, impossibly close to her on the other side.

She nestled in against him and took stock of his steady breaths, a cadence that could drive the universe forward, a sound that she’d heard in the winds and the waves and inside of herself.

What was happening?  She remembered...some of it.

She remembered walking, staggering, really - walking into the hospital room, and the cold feeling of rubbing alcohol on her unbroken skin, burning as it hit the cuts and abrasions.  She could remember watching Kate, and most of all her hand, holding the knife; that small hand moving up and down and each stroke spraying red, drips getting into Kate’s hair...fascinating…

...and she remembered Meryn Trant. And the cold satisfaction on his face as he hit her, over and over.

“Jaqen.”

He stirred sleepily and then seemingly realized where he was and she felt his muscles tense and release against her.

“Arya. My lovely girl. She wakes.” He drew his head to an elbow to try to see her in the dark room.  

“Jaqen...my head...fuck.  They got me, they really got me.” She could feel where the blood hadn’t been cleaned off properly, felt her hair sticking to the side of her head.

“Arya, a man is beyond happy that you still have a head. They would have killed you.”  He realized the words that tumbled out of his mouth. An image rose in his mind, too horrible to think of - what if he had walked in and instead of finding a limp but still defiant girl, he had only the pieces of her to pick up.

He didn’t think his soul could take it and he reached his head down and as gently, gently as he could, placed his lips on hers and left them there, breathing in shared air, taking in the smell of her even tainted as it was by the smell of the doctor, of disinfectant, the coppery tang of her blood that still clung to her.

After a moment she flicked her tongue against his lips and then pressed her mouth against him.

Oh the comfort that could be divined in a lover’s mouth. The exact place that her tongue should be - where it was meant to be -  the gentle insistence, never too much and never enough. That moment that stills time and space and all other trivial concerns, as lovers tell each other of their endless devotion wordlessly.  As they meld into each other, and become as one, joined in sensation and emotion and divinity.

She kissed him as gently as she could until she could not wish away the aching in her head, on her mouth; the plasticky residue from where they’d taped it shut; the little hairs sticking and pulling where it had covered her face.

“Jaqen.  What else happened?”

His lips nearly sighed from the lack of hers, and as her eyes adjusted she realized that they were fixed on her face.  

“Gaani and I finished the others, we took them off and waited for you at the apartment.  Kate walked in...alone. We rang Varys and had him check with some of the surveillance that was keeping an eye on the area. As it happens, they saw Meryn Trant push something into a car...and from there they extrapolated where he might go with such a prize.”

He hesitated.

“And when we found you, when we found Jaime Lannister, his pants unzipped and his eyes wild, I did not think. So I killed him, lovely girl.”

Arya closed her eyes and suppressed a shiver as the rest of the events came to her.  That smug look, entitled, like he could just take whatever he wanted...

“He thought he’d have the last laugh. I was sure he was going to fuck me. He fucking cleaned me off like a madman and then got himself off on me. I was fading. Sick fuck.”  Arya’s words came out so low that she could barely hear them herself.

When she opened her eyes Jaqen’s eyes burned her.  He growled. “I would _tear_ him limb from limb. I would kill him over and over again, _gut_ him, leave him with nothing…”  

“And a girl would let you.” Arya mused. “But instead, we’ll have to handle his sister. Wonder how she’ll like finding out that he’s dead?”

A slow smile spread across her face and it stayed there as she nestled back up against Jaqen, the hospital bed creaking in protest against their shared weight, as they clutched each other, the only organic forms in that strange sterile place.

 

 

Jaime had been gone long enough. That was _quite enough_ of this, enough of his little tantrum, enough of his little episode.

Oh he’d be _sorry_ that he ever walked out that door, sorry that he ever raised his voice to her...sorry that he’d ever said a word to her about how she was running the business. _Their_ business!  She had shared it with him - and now, ungrateful, he just left her.

She’d been sitting in the dark, on the chair - Robert’s stupid chair - for long enough.  She stood up and flicked on a lamp, saw herself in the mirror on the wall across the room. _I hate this room. I hate this lamp._  All of Robert’s fucking stuff.  He had insisted on that ridiculous little statue, that _fucking deer_ on the bookshelf - he had a fucking deer painted on the side of his boat, _his fucking boat for God’s fucking sake…._

_I need to get rid of all of this garbage, this tasteless, ridiculous garbage; get rid of Robert, get rid of Jaime...get rid of all of them, all of it._

The house was too silent, too quiet.

She looked for her glass - where was it - and her phone - ahhh, together...and scowled at the face of her phone.  Still no messages.

_Where is he, that fucking bastard?_

She poured another glass and let the wine flow down her throat, down her veins, all the way down her being until she felt the warmth root her to the floor.

She closed her eyes. _Don’t make me come find you._

She drained her glass and felt a quick curdle in her stomach - he wasn’t here, he hadn’t brought her dinner - she was alone, alone...and before the impulse passed she tapped out a message to Meryn Trant.

_Find him and tell him he needs to come to me, immediately._

Cersei expected him to text her back immediately and she felt her anger rise even further as no noise emitted from her phone.

_This house is too quiet._

_That fucking deer._ Cersei couldn’t stop staring at it. _Fucking Robert Baratheon and his fucking deer._

Cersei picked it up and threw it across the room at her reflection and the silence shattered along with the massive mirror, shattered with a smash into little pieces that moved across the floor until they, too, stilled and the room became silent, too quiet, once again.  

 

 

She had _smiled._ His lovely girl had awoken, and instead of feeling scared or sad she’d wanted...revenge.  She nearly spat the snake’s name out of her mouth. She’d lay back down with a smile on her lips, a smile on her lips even as a faded shadow of blood darkened her neck, her hairline.

And his lovely girl was fine, she would be fine - she was so strong, impossibly strong and yet at the same time he could not stop thinking of her vulnerability…the strength of her and the impossibly tantalizing delicate curve of her wrist.

He was getting unbearably hard, pressed up against her in that ridiculously small hospital bed and he bit at his lower lip to keep himself in check.

Surely the last thing that a girl wants, after having that Lannister cock, unwanted and forced upon her.

He felt the same anger wash over him again and briefly thought of the feeling of kicking Jaime Lannister’s body: how his body just absorbed the kick, and he could kick him again and again and it would never be enough….

...and somehow his anger entangled with the blood rising in his core and he groaned.

The most beautiful sound, next to him; the most beautiful sound arose like a spirit from the precious skin and bones and muscles and soul that he was laying up against.

The faintest, faintest little moan as she exhaled.

_Oh lovely girl...do not tempt me...I can not restrain myself..._

He couldn’t take her here. _He couldn’t take her._ She needed to heal, she needed…

As _he_ thought of what she needed, _she_ made up her mind herself.

He felt her hand move along his thigh and maddeningly rub up against him, the small space of the bed making an awkward angle, hard to reach, making every point of contact that much more precious….

And then she lit the spark that ignited him.

“Jaqen...I want you….please….”

A strangled sound came out of his mouth and he turned to get a better angle, so as to oblige her.

He felt her hand moving up against the hardness in his pants and he ground up against it. This bed. No. He moved off of it and perversely delighted in her up on it, laid out in front of him as he stood at her side, the wheels creaking up against their locks.  He pushed the blankets aside and ran his fingers up her legs, stroking until he reached up to her thigh and then circling two fingers around her lips, gently dipping a finger into the slickness, the heat strangely radiating out of her core, the small sigh as she felt him in her…

He had to have her.

He moved his fingers more intentionally inside her, reaching and curling them up and ran his other hand up the landscape of her body, stopping at the peaks of breasts, feeling her start to thrash and move under his fingers...and her mouth...he moved his mouth over her lips, ohhh to feel her completely under his spell, moaning and starting to thrash as he kept all of her under his control...she started to mewl and he felt impossibly hard, felt himself rubbing up against the cold of the bed to get some relief as he looked as his love in front of him, and the arch of her back as his fingers curled up deeper and his thumb kept circling the little bud of nerves…

And he gasped as he needed his relief and felt his fingers become more and more cruel and he felt her ecstasy, that flutter around his fingers and she stiffened before slackening, satisfied, melting back, and he gave her a few pitiless more strokes with his fingers relishing the feeling under them before pulling them out and then taking himself, his cock heavy and hot in his hands, and feverishly stroking until he gasped and came on the tile floor underneath him.

And sated he crawled back up in the small space that she made him and wrapped his arm gently over her and kissed the cheekbone closest to him, kept his mouth on her as their breathing slowed and slowed and the night wrapped around them again.

 

 

 

“Yes.”

She had been waiting, waiting. Fucking Trant was supposed to be finding Jaime, and he had left more than half an hour ago, and Cersei didn’t care if he had to go to Montpelier to find him, just find him, that fucking idiot couldn’t be more slow...and now instead of Jaime in front of her the phone rang….and instead of Jaime calling her it was fucking Trant...

“Yes…?”  She seethed, she hissed. _Where is he._

Trant’s voice sounded slightly faraway, uncertain.  “Cersei. We have a problem.”

“What is it?” _Fool. Tell me._ “Meryn Trant, by the gods, tell me.”

“Cersei, Jaime’s been murdered. I’m at the property. La Courneuve. The storefront. We were here, earlier, with the Stark girl...Jaime’s dead, shot.”

His voice sounded so very, very far away.

His voice.

He had just told her that…

_Impossible._

“What...that is ridiculous, Meryn, that’s impossible. Jaime. I sent you to look for Jaime.”

_This was not happening...the Stark girl? This was not happening..._

“Cersei. I’m sorry. Someone came after Jaime. He’s dead, he’s shot, here in the back of the storeroom.”

Cersei buckled and the phone clattered on the ground beside her, and from very far away, miles away, galaxies away, she could hear Meryn Trants voice continue to talk until the phone clicked and the cold tone of a broken call was the only sound in the room.

And it became too quiet, once again, until she could hear the alien sound of someone sobbing...it was her, and when she realized it, she swallowed the sob and steeled it inside her and let the room quiet again, silence overcoming the black night.

 

 

 

The next nine hours with Petyr.  Sansa didn’t sigh...but she couldn’t quite manage a smile, either.

At least they were in first class. She wasn’t...pressed up against him...and he'd kept his hands away from her.

Why was she going out here, anyhow?  A few more frantic texts to Arya before she left and _still_ no response back.  She was getting nervous.  And now the next few days with Petyr…

At least, at the very least, he’d shown some restraint - remarkable restraint, actually - his eyes had been almost..normal as he looked at her.  She’d seen some boyish excitement in them as she walked up in the airport.  For a brief moment he looked less like a snake charmer and more human, more vulnerable - and then that looked snapped off of his face only to be replaced his normal composure.

She stared at the seat ahead of her, lost in her thoughts.   _Arya...this had better be worth it, Arya...and then we take you home..._

She saw the movement of his legs shifting in her peripheral vision and she looked over at him.  He was _staring_ at her - and when she caught him he shifted his eyes away before looking back at her.

His voice was quiet.

“I’m very glad that we get to take this little jaunt, Sansa.”

She could only muster a small smile, but that was easy enough.  In all of this craziness - just utter madness! - he was the only constant that she had.

  
He’d have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd because I got the fever and the whole damned thing came out and then I had to put it up.
> 
> * note *
> 
> So in my mind's eye, Jaqen and Arya are in a little doctor's office / day clinic. Something that would generally not have patients overnighting it - because of Varys' connections, this doctor is saying nothing and keeping her there.


	25. die like an animal

Sansa woke to the droning noise of the plane flying steadily over the Atlantic.  

She looked over.  The cabin lights had been dimmed.  Petyr was next to her, his head leaning up against the edge his seat.  She looked at his face. Without the mask of wakefulness, without the studied insolence, he looked almost like a different person.

There was a...vulnerability.

She settled back into her seat and the movement woke him.

His face crinkled into a smile.

“Sleep, sweet Sansa. We’ll be in Paris sooner enough.” His voice was slightly groggy. He reached a lazy hand and patted her arm.

She looked over at him, already drifting back into sleep, and looked down at her hands, stilled, quiet on her lap.

_What was she doing?_

  
  
  
  


The light was starting to illuminate the flat planes of the room, but the corners were still wrapped in the dark gray of dawn.

Jaqen opened his eyes. He was stiff, stiff on that bed, that tiny, stiff horrible excuse for a bed.   _Not so horrible_ ..he tried to convince himself as he felt the railing against his back....sleeping with one eye open on the floor of a Bedouin tent, the sound of sand swirling up against canvas, the desert night shockingly cold. The piss-smelling cold, clay floor deep in Argentina, a most unfortunate evening in jail. _Not_ comfortable.

There, this was not so bad.

The smell of Arya next to him, the dark hair, her face shadowed, the even steady sound of her breathing.

 _Didn’t have_ her _in the desert, in the tent.  Definitely didn’t have her in the jail._

He coiled around her, drinking in her warmth, the soft exhalations.

_Where to take his lovely girl... after._

A man had made a promise. Should she wish him to keep it, he would gladly.  A different life. After. Perhaps it would do.

His mind turned over on itself.  He had not considered any path beyond the one he’d been traveling for a very long time.  What to do with his lovely girl.  A life to build.  Just so.

Jaqen had gone to university in Istanbul.  He’d studied architecture; he’d loved how the lines of a room could make it feel soaring, or meditative, or purposeful.  Perhaps that could be a distraction, perhaps that could be a fraction as all-encompassing as the work that he’d been doing, a shadow of it.  He meditated for a moment, trying to remember his life before blood seeped through it.  Before he became acutely aware of the fragility of even the most horrible snakes, before he knew how satisfying it was to watch their life end by his own hand.

A man was very good at it.

The blank green eyes of Jaime Lannister flashed into his thoughts and he let them stay there.  Examined his own response to it. _A man has done too much._ Eighty nine lives, now, adding in the little snakes in Paris. Eighty nine lives he had taken off. And there were more ahead of him, before he could even consider an end to it. How does a man return to normalcy when he’d given the gift of death to those who deserved it, who needed it, the most?   _Those deaths had paid for so so many lives._

For a brief moment he tried to picture a different universe for himself and struggled. Each scenario seeming just out of his fingers. An unfamiliar feeling. Failure, failure in the normal world; a killer, shunned; destined to secrecy, to ennui, eating and sleeping and fucking, the reality of an animal.  

Jaqen H’gar did not fail. And a man did not fear. It was not done.

He inhaled and focused on his breath to push back the grasping hands of it.

_It is only done without the effort.  The effort drags you down._

He pictured her facing him, eyes and mouth and hair, teasing him on hands and knees, suggestive - irresistible. Bleary eyed, pouring coffee in the morning and then the sudden awakening of her humor. Walking in front of him, excited, those great strides, in city after city.  Incandescent. Alive.

Pictured himself with a different purpose. The finding of it, the embracing of it, the satisfaction of the learning.  A life of...totality, of _everything_.

It was enchanting, but in a gentle way, a soft rising warmth through him.

_The only universe in which any of this works is the one where she is by a man’s side._

He came to a decision and banked it, closing his eyes to get just a bit more sleep in the strangely peaceful, quiet womb within the clinic.

  
  
  
  


Cersei had been sitting for hours, sitting through the night.  Even after Meryn’s words.  Still...waiting.

Waiting for him to come home. _But he never would._

_It can’t be. It can’t be. It can’t be true. No no no noooooo…._

Meryn Trant is _lying_. That fucking idiot doesn’t know…Jaime couldn’t die.

But she knew it was true, she felt it, she felt the _lack_..Jaime...always so close, inside her skin her head her thoughts...he was not there now, and the hollowness needed to be filled...grasping…empty...

There was nothing, nothing, nothing was left. _They had taken everything._ She fought the agony licking up her body, trying to consume her.  She was broken like so many shards of mirror scattered across the floor.

Defiance pieced her back together. Rage seeped in between the cracks.  She came together and _burned_.

_They could take him, but she would not break. She would not bend._

She _was_ the fire. She felt it reach through her limbs, spark from her bodies.  She would rise, rise...they could not take her. Fuck them.  They could not touch her. She would _incinerate_ them.

_Fuck everyone that isn’t us._

_They could not take her._

She closed her eyes and willed anger to close around her, to solidify around every muscle, every sinew of her body, feeling it on the arches of her feet, travel up the tendons of her legs, lick at her and fill her aching, empty cunt, and a dry heat up through her head to steady her thoughts. Singe her, stop everything that was not necessary, cleanse her...a dry hot wind searing the landscape of her...

_They would pay...whoever did this...they would pay...death was not enough…_

_They would pay in pain._

She picked up her phone.  It was 6 a.m. in Moscow. He’d be awake, his day would have started already.  He needed to know.   _She_ needed to tell him.

“Father. Jaime was murdered.”

  
  
  
  
  


Arya woke up. The muscle relaxers had worn off and with every beat of her heart pain thrummed over her body.

It was morning, early morning. The clinic must still be closed; the building was still silent.  She could see around the room, clearly for the first time since she’d staggered onto the bed.  Bathroom...she needed to get up...she hoisted her body up and towards the door on the side of the room.

Jaqen woke and got up to try to help her but she put a hand up to stop him.  She made her way over to the bathroom and relieved herself, shaking her head at Jaqen standing at the door.

He came in.

In front of the sink, she paused. Her face. Her hair was sticking out, clumping along a ridge of staples just behind her hairline.  Her eye was blackened and the side of her face was scraped and bruised.  She looked down...bruises marked her form.

Jaqen was behind her and she heard the rush of water from a small shower.  Yesssss.  Wash all of it off, wash Jaime off, wash Meryn Trant’s gaze off of her.

_Wash this weakness off of her._

Wash it off, down the drain, and steel herself for what was yet to come.

The water started to steam and Jaqen grabbed a towel for her, set it outside. _Thank you._

The hot water stung her but there was a certain...satisfaction in watching the water swirl by her feet, colored with dried blood. She’d grabbed a soap packet and started to wash herself from the top down, her face and cleaning the line of her neck.  Her stomach was untouched, her breasts ached with nips and marks...but to be fair, those were brought from pleasure rather than her ordeal...

_Just my body, just a shell, it will heal…_

As she stood under the water, finally completely clean, she let the hot water run over her wounds and imagined them sealed.

The door opened.

He came to her, and wetting himself he put his hands on her shoulders, kneading them softly, testing to see how far he could press his touch before it was too much.  He felt the tension unknotting, and worked out her arms, pressed the skin down her back following the muscles rising gently on either side of her spine.

 _It felt good. It felt gooood_. And Arya stood there as he took it from her, took the pain out, and it too washed down the drain.

He moved too closely to her and she felt his stiffness bump against her.

“Mmmmm.”  She reached for him.

“No, lovely girl, a man would take you endlessly, but for now let me just heal you…” Jaqen’s voice was soft. Soothing. A velvet glove, caressing her, while the water touched her...

So good.

She didn’t mean to groan.  She couldn’t help it.

At the noise Jaqen kissed her and knelt.  The sight of him lowering himself in front of her and his head reaching between her legs was the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensation of his hand cupping her ass, the water rushing down between them, almost too hot against her skin, and the feeling of worship as his tongue slid in and coiled over her, gently teasing her until his lips sealed around her, and she felt herself release and flutter, warm and wet.

When he finished she opened her eyes and reached for his mouth, tasting the tang of herself, the sweet bitter on his lips.

And all of it was washed away from her, even the too-large insistency of her pleasure, leaving behind a sweetness in her belly, her skin cleaned, and her wounds soothed by the heat.

She smiled at him and turned off the tap.

They had business to attend to.

  
  
  


Cersei woke from a fitful sleep and reached her arm across the bed.

_He’s not here._

_He’s gone._

_They took him from me._

No. Now is not the time for sorrow. Now is the time to make them pay.

_They would pay in pain._

She scrubbed herself mercilessly in the shower and dressed.  Today she would wear black, today she would outwardly mourn for the world to see.

_They did not need to know how she felt, really._

They would soon understand how she burned.

That fucking idiot was good for something, at least. Meryn had called in a contact at Police Nationale - a big favor, expensive, to be sure. _Very expensive._ Jaime’s body had been picked up, the storeroom had been cleaned, the alleyway wiped of blood.

A storeroom. Jaime deserved more than to die like an animal on the street, getting his body dragged to the back room of an empty shop in the slums.

She realized that she was clutching her teacup too tightly and went over the rest of the preparations in her head.

The Stark girl...the Stark girl had been with them. Meryn had found her, taken her.  Right by where Isra Dal’eel was found, bloodied beyond belief, the woman’s body appearing on the news this morning. One of the beasts she could not control, taken out _for_ her.

The cell in Paris, the unruly beasts not swayed by money, the cell that had caused so much trouble for Cersei - eliminated.

Normally that would make Cersei, very, very happy.

But the Stark girl had vanished.  Meryn had an inkling of where they had been hiding, little rats in a nest. He forced the door this morning but the apartment was empty, vacated.

 _Starks._ Cersei hated them. They were almost gone.

Robert had called her Lyanna, at first. _Lyanna!_ As if she was anything like that coarse woman. It had been enough to set Cersei on edge. His touch was already unbearable. And then to call her _that_ name...

It was with greatest satisfaction that she’d seen the fruits of her labor, seen Robert with his eyes red, trying to hide his sorrow. That fucking idiot. Mourning over Lyanna. Lyanna had left him anyhow, and still he cried, his big stupid blue eyes squeezing out fat tears.

Cersei’s _first_ accomplishment.

Until fucking Ned, that self-righteous fuck, had turned up in Moscow and made her life a living hell for the next fifteen years. First shipments, disrupted; she’d had to go underground and then scrabble for more money. It was a fucking stroke of genius to get Robert to grovel for it from Ned. Fucking moron didn’t even realize what he had paid for - restarting the business that Ned himself had wrecked. _Guns were expensive. Good thing those lives were so cheap._  

She relished the thought of Ned’s superiority, him unwittingly paying for something he hated so much. Mourning for his sister, and yet handing money over to Cersei after she’d made sure that Lyanna was found absolutely _smeared_ on Moscow sidewalks.

 _Moron._ Ned looked all over for her killer and didn’t even know it was her. It was almost all she could do to not laugh in his face, even as Robert dragged her to visit that fetid little shack of Ned’s out in the middle of nowhere.  

_Starks._

There were more of them. That little Stark girl Meryn had found. The sister - well, Petyr had her, that oily fucking cretin, he’d charm his way into her apartment and try to charge her triple the Stark sister’s worth.  And the one in Afghanistan, the oldest brother, probably another self-righteous little Ned in the making. In the Marines. _Of course he was._   _Well, it was time._

She picked up her phone and made another call.  The oldest, well, the oldest Stark would have a monumental visitor soon.  Gregor. Quite a vision, he’d be, for that oldest Stark.

And she herself would handle that little Stark, that inconsequential little Stark.   _The one who looked like Lyanna._

 _Jaime was with her_ ...she pushed aside the ache. _Not now._ Cersei finished her tea and waited.  Tywin was flying in, he would be here soon.

They had business to attend to.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : )
> 
> a short little chap, again un-beta'd...I'm feeling the urgency of the story and just want to get it out.
> 
>  PSST MOST LOYALEST READERS: **If you're looking for the Belize/hammocky Interlude Chapter that I just deleted (the chapter formerly known as 26) - I will put it back up as an 'alternate ending' for the story, promise!


	26. green grass of Mosahi

Another day, another watch.

That man was down there again.  He hadn’t heard anything from command about him; he’d been watching him almost to the exclusion of his other targets.  He couldn’t help but focus in on him.

_ If only they could get closer. _

Sam grunted beside him.  “You’re really quiet today, Jon. I mean, normally you’re really quiet but today….did you get mail or something that’s got you thinking?”

Jon didn’t move his eyes from the scope.  “No.”

“I did.” Sam’s voice tipped upwards. “I heard from Gilly. She’s thinking of moving back up to the snow while she waits for me.  Only for a few months...but being stationed in Florida...she says it’s a whole different world down there. She’s thinking of Colorado. Have you been up there, Jon?”

Jon just shook his head.  “Sam, I really, really don’t like that guy…”

“Yes, Jon, I know. Did you not hear anythi---”

“Colorado is beautiful, Sam - you guys should think of moving there when you’re done. Really.”  Jon laughed.  “Sorry, bud. It’s just...a weird feeling I have. I can’t shake it.  We should see if we can get closer.  And yes,  _ Gilly Gilly Gilly _ ...make sure Gilly gets what she wants, because you’re a lucky man, Mr. Sam Tarly…plus, Colorado...I’ll come and ski when we’re done. And stay with you, and eat you out of house and home. Tell Gilly all of your secrets.  Payback on behalf of the Marine Corps.”

Sam sighed and put the scope back to his eye.

“You say that every day about that guy, Jon. Every single day,” he grumbled.

“Keep watch for a second, Sam.”  Jon rolled over and up, walking away from their vantage point.  He waited until he was out of earshot and then radioed down to base.

He kept his voice steady, but his heart was thumping.

When he came back to Sam, he grinned.

“We’re gonna take a closer look at that guy tomorrow, if conditions hold as is.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Jon. What are you talking about? A  _ closer _ look?”

“We’re not the only ones that have been making noise about that guy, and intel has picked up a few things. I just volunteered us to get a bit closer.  Unless, you want to stay up here….”

Sam sighed. “Really wish you’d just occupy your time asking me questions about Gilly and Colorado instead of volunteering us for some extra mission, Jon.”

Jon smiled.  “When we get out of here, I’ll ask Gilly every single question I have about you myself.”

  
  


 

  
  


Arya had _ just  _ wrapped herself in a hospital gown when a crisp knock sounded at the door. Jaqen pulled the chair away from the door and opened it. The doctor walked back into the room with his impassive, efficient demeanor -  blasé , as if  _ every  _ patient blockaded the door. 

“Mademoiselle,” he curtly nodded and then, satisfied with his one-word pleasantry, started moving his quick fingers up and down the staples on her head.  

Instinctively Arya pulled her spine as straight up as she could. The scent of peppermint and hand sanitizer emanated from him as he moved his hands over her wounds, her skin still damp from the shower and prickling when he removed the gown wordlessly.  

His eyes - so dark that she could not differentiate between the iris and pupil - she stared blankly at them while he examined her, moving her arms, gently feeling her ribs and running his fingers around the bones of her face. Apparently satisfied, he handed her the robe and turned to Jaqen, handing him two prescription bottles.

She struggled again with the ridiculous robe.  _ Ah, my precious modesty, saved. _

The doctor turned back to her and spoke slowly in French, as if to a child.  “Ah. You are as well as one can expect. A concussion, your rib is cracked. You must rest. Antibiotics - you do not want that wound to fester. Some pain medicine. You will sleep, heal, and then you will be well.”

“Merci mille fois.” She nodded her head and finished tying the blue strings of the hospital gown around her. Jaime had rendered her clothing yesterday into tatters.  _  This would have to do. Modesty, gone. _

The doctor allowed a small smile to pass his lips before he turned to Jaqen with a slight bow, and in another economical use of movement, turned to the door.

He stopped with one hand on the handle and turned his head back.  “The clinic will open in 20 minutes. One may want to leave before that time.”

And with that, in a flash of dark hair and mint and pale skin and efficiency, he was gone and Arya felt that for moment the womb-like, safe feeling of the green walls of their clinic room vanished with him.  _ Now what. Now where.  _

The driving energy of her shower was gone. The question mark of their next move hung over her.

Jaqen smiled at her, and wordlessly pulled out his phone and made a call. Arya was not sure what language he was speaking in. It didn’t matter.  Hearing him on the phone diminished her uncertainty - he’d ensure that all was _ taken care of. S _ he allowed the last of her earlier energy wane and leave her limbs heavy.  He would take care of all of it.  _ He would take care of her. _

She focused in on the sound of his voice...velvet, droning, that silken edge to each word, and started to let her eyes close, slumping into the armchair...and just started to drowse off when she felt his hands ruffle gently down the unmolested side of her head, trace gently down her cheek and finish under her chin.

“Arya. The car is here. Let’s go.”

And before she could stand up, he pulled her into his arms and carried her out of the fluorescent, sallow lighting and pale green linoleum of the clinic through the back door.  Arya flinched against the sudden, jarring flash of sunlight. Jaqen’s arms were gentle and he placed her as if a delicate, breakable thing, into the back seat of the waiting car and drew up against her. They pulled out into the traffic of the Parisian morning streets.  

 

 

 

 

They had made it out of the airport and still Petyr was uncharacteristically….normal. Quiet. Thoughtful.  _ What is he doing? _ He had grabbed her bags without looking back to make sure that she had noticed his chivalry; he had directed the taxi driver to the hotel without any suggestive looks; and he had deflected, in the opulent lobby of the hotel, when the front desk staff initially wanted to give them one room for _ Monsieur et Madame _ .

_ Clearly, Petyr had something else on his mind. _

Sansa was relieved...and slightly confused.  _ What was she doing here? _  She nervously checked her phone again, and again...and nothing.   _ Arya, where are you?? _

The steady chit chat that she would have normally employed seemed out of place with this new, sober Petyr and she clutched her arm with the other, trying to figure out how to best manage him - and what exactly her objective was, here with him, if she couldn’t get ahold of Arya.

“Sweet Sansa. I presume you’d like to settle in?”  _ There it was. _  The slightest tip in his voice, the endearment saccharine on his tongue, his fingers travelling to his beard for a moment as he cocked his head to look at her.

She pulled her eyes as widely as she could and smiled gamely - this,  _ now this _ , was something she could work with.

She pulled on one long copper curl and twirled it around her finger absentmindedly.  “It’s gorgeous, Petyr, I can’t thank you enough for bringing me out here.  What are we doing after we get settled?”

_ Keep your enemies close _ .

Petyr smiled almost sadly at her.  “Darling, I have some business to tend to until late this afternoon.  Perhaps you could do some shopping, we could meet for dinner?”

_ Petyr...if you change the rules of the game, how can I win? _

“Of course.” Sansa murmured and straightened, and followed Petyr to the elevator.

_ Strange. _

_ Paris. _

At least she was here. She  _ did l _ ove Paris. She’d come here with Willas, but the image of Paris that stuck out in her head was the one she created as a child: she’d made up a story about each cathedral, each beautiful building she’d see while walking through the city with her mother...and she’d imagine herself in each building, near each statue;  _ hers. _

In her room she washed the airplane grime off her face and looked at herself in the mirror.  She pulled out her makeup bag and reapplied her armor, paying perhaps a bit more attention to her eyes this time.   _ Yes. _ Paris. Might as well. Plus, better to keep Petyr guessing as to where she was. She’d go out, she’d shop, she’d see him when she returned.

The thought brightened her.

Finally ready, she paused before she opened the door to leave her room. She frowned at its face and dialed.  _ Again. _

_ Arya, Arya, answer me this time. _

 

 

Cersei didn’t know how to handle the sorrow. It had its own rhythm; it expanded to take over all of her thoughts and contracted into nothing, replaced by anger. But she couldn’t worry about that right now. She had to deal with Tywin.

Anyhow, sorrow wasn’t the dominant emotion at this exact moment.  _ He had left her. He said he would never leave her, and he did. _  Jaime.  _ Fucking idiot. _ If he’d just been with her none of this would have happened...and now to deal with Father, on the first flight from Moscow.  

The morning grew late and Cersei stayed out of Robert’s study, sitting instead in her bedroom. The house was too empty. It was empty when the children left... _ but this was different. _ The only sound she heard was the ticking of the massive clock in the hall until a clank interrupted the steady cadence; the heavy front door shut decisively and clipped, steady footsteps sounded downstairs, slightly dulled on the herringbone parquet floors.

_ Tywin was here. Tywin was here.   _

She steeled herself. Cersei could almost feel the temperature in the house drop. She pulled something from inside of herself, a desire to obey - Tywin was the one person that she’d wanted to please - the one person who she felt she never could, quite completely.  No one could please him.  _ But it was her instinct to try... _

She made her face a blank mask. Emotion was never,  _ ever, _ a way to break through to her father.

She pulled herself together and walked down the stairs, trying not to grip the railing too tightly, as Tywin strode through the foyer and towards her.

“Cersei.” He nodded at her. “This is unexpected. And strange. I need to understand what exactly has been happening here.” The angle of his jaw was peculiar, foreign to her.  He stared into her eyes, holding them for an uncomfortably long moment before turning up the stairs and towards the study.

_ How much did he know...about her...about Jaime...and Baratheon Enterprises…. _

She realized. The ghost fleeting across his face, the unfamiliar gaze that her father was giving her had been formed by  _ sorrow. _

_ Of course. Jaime was his favorite. _

Tywin quickly cleared the emotion off his face and moved past Cersei to the study, where they would usually meet for Tywin’s visits, her father barely able to contain his distaste as Robert blathered on to him. _No, no, no._ She had to stop him.  The mirror. All over the floor. She hadn’t seen the housekeeper come in yet.   _No._ _Fucking Father, darling, just thinking you could march through my house? My house, not Robert’s?_

Cersei took control.

“Father...let’s go to the parlor. Robert’s study is...a mess. Also, Jaime and I would sit in there...I don’t need anything else that reminds me of him.”

Tywin stopped walking and stared at her, piercing her with those green-gold eyes. He paused before he spoke.

“Yes, I suppose you don’t need to be reminded of your brother any more than necessary.”

_ What?   _ Cersei bristled...he knew.

Tywin had found them fucking - or trying to - once, when they were not even teenagers. They didn’t even know what they were doing,  _ it just felt good, _ but Tywin had found them and raged. It was the only time she could remember Tywin raising his hand to her.  He hadn’t allowed her to put her shirt back on and she remember being acutely aware of the emerging buds of her breasts in front of her father, thought that she could see the disgust on his face as he slapped her face. Jaime had gotten it worse - Tywin’s belt had made a sickening sound as it hit Jaime’s ass over and over.

Tywin had sent Jaime away for a few months after that - summer camp, ostensibly - and Cersei remembered the shame that she felt every time her father had looked at her, and how that shame burned into anger.  He didn’t understand, no one understood _ ….Jaime…. _

“No, Father, I don’t need to reminded of my twin brother, who was brutally shot by savages.   _ Last night. _ Come. Trant should be here soon.”  Cersei marched past him and towards the parlor.

_ There’s a cart in here with glasses, with wine.  Good. _

Tywin’s face was inscrutable as he surveyed the parlor.  Cersei saw it through his eyes. Gold and black...and those  _ fucking  _ deer in here, too - this time embroidered in the edging of the drapes.   _ She should burn this place down, fuck Robert, fuck Jaime for leaving her, fuck Tywin, fuck all of them...burn it down and start fresh, build something for her and her alone... _

She poured a glass of wine and motioned to see if he wanted one. His voice dripped with displeasure. “Cersei. It’s not even noon yet.”

She looked at him over the rim of the glass as she took a deep drink, daring him to continue, daring him to say something.  _ Do fuck off, Father. _

“We’ve paid the police to handle the scene and the body.  He was shot, several times, at close range. Trant says that he picked up the littlest Stark girl and had her held at the property in Corneuve.”

“The Stark girl. Why would Trant pick up the Stark girl?”  Tywin’s voice was imperious.

Cersei almost smiled into her drink.  Oh the Stark girl...Petyr was on his way over here, he’d bring that  _ other  _ Stark girl..she’d absolutely relish getting both of them…two more little Starks. She felt a little twinge in her core.

She pulled herself together.   _ Tywin doesn’t know. Tywin doesn’t know. _

“Because Trant is a fool. You know how...loyal he was to Robert.  Somehow he thinks that it’s some sort of tribute to Robert. You know that the littlest one looks like that woman that he was hung up on for years. You will have to ask Trant when he gets here.”

Tywin had a different relationship with the Starks than she did. He’d watched that Targaeryan lover of Lyanna’s completely melt down so many years ago. He’d worked with their family for years. He had more... _ sympathy  _ for them than she cared for.

_ Tywin didn’t know. _

Let Trant squirm when he tries to explain. He knows that Tywin can’t know anything about their new line of business. And he’ll lose his cut if he spills it.  Oh, it will be rich, absolutely rich to watch Trant try to tell Tywin about this.  _ That fucking fool. This will be the most fun I have all day. _

She’d said enough.

_ Let Tywin make the next move. _

  
  
  
  


 

A hotel. They were staying in... _ a tourist hotel. _ How...anticlimactic.  

They already had a room, Gaani’s driver had handed Jaqen a key - _ thank god they didn’t have to stand in the fucking lobby, register...talk to anyone. _ Arya had been able to dart through it, keeping her eyes down, Jaqen’s hand in her own.  She knew that she looked like a lunatic. Jaqen had given her a button down shirt and she wore it over a makeshift skirt, the hospital gown twice wrapped at her waist..but she couldn’t cover her bruised face. She didn’t want to be exposed, didn’t want to be seen... _ but _ she was grateful for the buzz of people in the hotel.  ‘ _ People’ means safe. _

They entered their room and Arya realized with relief that either Kate or Gaani had picked up her things from the apartment and brought them here.  She pulled off that fucking hospital gown and Jaqen’s shirt and put a tee shirt on, leggings, wincing as she pulled them over the bruised skin on her legs.

Jaqen, in a room with lace pillows...she smiled over at him, amused by the sight of him in their new surroundings.

“Lovely girl, we need to speak with Kate and Gaani. Are you up for it?”

She nodded.  _ Yes, what had they found out… _

Jaqen pulled his laptop over and gently pulled her to the bed, calling them up via video chat.

She smiled at the image of herself and her lover on the screen; she had no images of him. She tilted her head up against his shoulder and settled in.

Kate and Gaani appeared; they seemed to be in a small, dark room. Gaani’s face crinkled over the video as he looked at Arya.

“Girl. How are you feeling?” She could hear the warmth in his voice; she was grateful for it.

She shrugged. “I’ve got a bit more metal in my head, and I look terrifying, but other than that I’ll live.”

She realized how much they had helped her and added thoughtfully. “Thanks to you. You guys...I don’t know what he would have done to me if you all hadn’t found me so quickly. Really, honestly...thank you.”

Jaqen’s free hand found hers and enveloped it in his warmth, gently moving his finger on her palm. He smiled at her and murmured, cryptically.

“All men must serve.”

“Now - Gaani. Kate. Tell us what you’ve learned.”

Kate looked at the camera. Arya was emptied of blame, of anger: Kate was a machine, she had been doing what she was programmed to do.  That thin arm, that knife - moving up and down. Kate had been right - Arya  _ was _ a liability. She was chastened.  _ Much to learn. _

“Tywin Lannister flew into Charles De Gaulle this morning and is probably already with Cersei.  Varys says that the police have already been out to the scene in Corneuve, but they came out in unmarked cars.  Our contact has no record of anything, so it must be someone on Lannister payroll. They took the body and spent a few hours in the space.”

Arya’s eyes widened. She hadn’t even considered...

“Is that going to be a problem? The police...Jaqen...Jaime’s body...shot?”

Kate stilled a low, robotic laugh.

“Arya, we’ve just done the work of dozens of police officers and likely saved the Pont Neuf as well as a few open air markets. Apparently an attack was planned in heavy tourist area.  The police we work with are aware of Cersei’s involvement, although it hasn’t made it all the way to the top yet.  Believe me, the death of the second most inconsequential Lannister means nothing to the Police Nationale.”

_ Well then.  _

Jaqen motioned to Kate.  “Tywin is here?”

Kate nodded, and looked at Gaani before continuing.  “He’s here, and we’ve spoken to Varys about this.  We have no evidence that Tywin is involved in anything that Cersei is handling. As much as I personally might dislike him, there’s no reason for him to be collateral damage, and he’s too high profile to sweep under the rug.”

Gaani interjected.  “Lovers. Rest today. We will keep an eye on Tywin and let you know when he’s left the house.  Trant keeps looking over his shoulder; he stopped by the apartment to pay us a little visit this morning but we’d already vacated it. Too bad. He had a bag with him - maybe he’d brought us some breakfast.”  He laughed. “Take a break, Arya, rest - Jaqen, we will have a plan tomorrow.”

Jaqen nodded.  “Just so. And are you safe?”

Gaani’s broad smile calmed Arya. “We’re in a little hovel about three blocks away from you. No room service, but we’re fine.”

Jaqen smiled.  “Very well. Stay safe, brother and sister. We will see you soon enough.”

He closed the laptop before Arya could say anything else and took one strong arm and pulled her closer to him, gingerly.

She exhaled in relief: this is all as it should be. _ Calm as still water.  _ She kissed underneath his chin, stubble covering the soft flesh and nestled up against him.  One of pockets started to vibrate. He pulled out a phone and raised an eyebrow.  

“Lovely girl, this is  _ your _ phone. Your sister.”

Arya started.   _Sansa..._ she hadn’t thought about Sansa since her last frenzied text the night Meryn came to the apartment _._ _What was she going to tell Sansa?_  Sansa would _flip_ if she saw her - she’d move heaven and earth to get her to come home. 

She clicked the call on.  “Hello?”

Arya sat upright in the bed, and her eyes widened almost to the point of caricature.

“Wait...you are...where?”

  
  


 

Tywin had been watching Cersei -  _ closely. _

Her fingers were twitching. She was...a handful. Probably the most like him than either of the other children.  Determined to take what was hers.  He couldn’t fault her for that…but...she was  _ off _ . 

He put his fingers together, sternly, and tapped his index fingers together, looking over them at her face.   

_ What had Jaime gotten himself into.  _ Cersei had something to do with it. He was certain. He couldn’t separate them. He’d hoped that Jaime would move up to Moscow once she married that boar of a man, but he’d stayed in Paris. Tywin frowned.

Cersei.

She was out of control. She’d slurred on the phone this morning.  She’d been erratic for the past several months.  He looked at her face - so much like Joanna’s, but so different. He could see a few tiny red capillaries surfacing near her nose.   _ She should get that fixed. _ She was coarsening in front of him.  She was practically drunk  _ right now.  _

He cleared his throat in disapproval and watched her hand shake, watched her jaw clench and the tendons in her neck flex with it. 

Cersei was going to be a liability.   _ And what exactly had she been up to with the Baratheon Corporation?  _  He’d heard some rumors... but she’d been evasive.  Typically, Cersei would overplay her hand _ just  _ to push for more with her audaciousness, but she’d been….coy….when he’d asked her about the business after Robert’s death. There was a lot of money at stake - the contracts were huge, and he’d  _ personally  _ vouched for the one rebuilding contract with the US government. 

Something was wrong with her, something beyond that disgusting, unholy foolishness between her and Jaime.  He couldn’t talk about Jaime to her. The idea turned his stomach. He’d shake down that thug Trant for information. 

Something else was wrong.

_ She couldn’t hide it forever.  _

“Cersei. I need to see Baratheon’s finances.” He made his voice into sword, steel, slicing through her. 

Gods, she was so drunk she couldn’t hide the fear on her face.

_ She was up to something.  Better catch it now… _

She was starting to say something, she was pushing back, damn her.  He knew how to stop her in her tracks.

“Cersei, as you know, I had intended on passing Casterly Rock Inc to Jaime when I retired. Obviously Tyrion has no head for business.  If I’m going to pass it to you, I need to see Baratheon’s books.  Profit and loss, the last 18 months. Show me.”

Her mouth was open.  _ For god's sake, Cersei, close it. Pull it together. _

“Your laptop.  _ Now. _ Go fetch it.”

And just like that, just like that she obeyed.  _ As well she should. _  She came back into the parlor a few moments later and pulled up some pages.

“Father. We’ve been exploring some new business models. It’s quite risky - but there’s no reward without risk, didn’t you always say?”  Her voice was significantly smaller than it normally was, even though he could hear her try to envelope it in bravado.

_ She was backpedaling. _ He took the laptop from her hands and looked at the folder she had brought up, and he found the file that would give him an overview - general profit and loss, no details.

Surprising. Perhaps she did have a head for business. He nodded, appreciative, seeing the numbers rise substantially one month after Robert’s death.  Baratheon Inc looked like it was on track to have it’s best Q3 results ever - even  _ before  _ September had been reported. The expenses...quite high...nothing familiar...he knew where she should be getting her materials, none of these names even made sense….

He clicked into the detailed file to see exactly where her spending lie.

“Cersei. You have one contractor - not even a company - that you’ve paid three million dollars just in the past few months?”

He noted, grimly, that her nostrils flared.  She was about to lie to him. He knew it. 

“Cersei.” He arched an eyebrow and waited for her to answer him, noting her dip her head towards her glass.   _ Disgusting, weak - Cersei, keep it together.  _

He dug a little deeper, clicking into the cell to open the details.

“Cersei.   _ Who is Gregor Clegane? _ ”

 

 

 

“Another beautiful day in Afghanistan.”  Jon was..well,  _ excited  _ was the wrong word, but there  was a different feeling to be had, out on the road, to move a little closer to the puzzle of green that was Mosahi. He thrummed with the danger of it. 

They’d pulled in a lot of information - some valuable tidbits, even as they lay prone on the brown dirt of the mountainside, eyes to a scope for the past days.  Jon’s warnings had been listened to, finally getting approval to move closer - _ that man  _ was haunting him - he wanted to get another perspective.

Sam sat next to him, whistling, looking out the window with wide eyes.  Their vehicle was armored, as safe as it could be - they’d watched the road for weeks and noting the places where the Afghans had avoided.  If they followed the course they had plotted out, they’d avoid any IEDs...and make it to their post, closer - close enough to get a better read on whatever the hell that giant of a man was doing in Mosahi. 

_ Something was going on.  _ That man’s phone was completely encrypted - well beyond anything the other ISIS fighters used, and leagues beyond what they’d seen with the Taliban beforehand.  Either this giant of a man was getting help from the Russians, or he might have Chinese money behind him...there was too much off-kilter about him - too well protected, he disappeared like a shadow every time the slightest hint of trouble had come up.

Jon wondered if he’d made the right choice, bringing Sam along, as Sam whistled in the seat next to him, looking out the window.  

Let him whistle. It was miserable, miserable enough out here. The impending election had thrown morale out the window for troops.  A few choice raids had taken out some of the insurgent leadership, but there always seemed to be replacements waiting in the wings.  More desperate, more bloodthirsty….less to lose. The noise of their vehicle protected them.  _ Whistle away, Sam... _

Jon slowed the vehicle as they rounded a curve.  There was a clump of brush - they were getting closer to Mosahi and the landscape was starting to change.  Mosahi’s river made it green and the fields were starting to be covered by patches of green grass -  an oasis shimmering against the brown and tan dusty landscape.  

Jon could see their destination and he navigated course.

_ Movement. There.  _ Jon put a hand up for Sam to stop whistling and kept his speed steady.  There was a rustling... _ not big enough to be fighters...it was...it was a child, _ there was a girl out there by the thatch- Jon could see her - he knew her, he’d seen her before in the village.  She was a little bit older than Red Shoes had been...she was bleeding, he saw the blood on her face.

Animals. _ Fucking animals using these children. _  Jon wondered if the fighters had their way with her - they’d seen it happen with little girls before - and he felt his rage rise up in him. 

“Sam. We’re going over there - we’re picking her up.”

“Jon. We haven’t mapped that part of the road.  _ Seriously. _ Stay here. We can’t save her.”  Sam’s voice wavered. 

“Sam. We’re picking her up. Be ready.” Jon would fucking  _ save  _ one of them, he couldn’t save them all but he could get  _ one _ of these children, fucking collateral in whatever twisted game they were playing…

He steered closer to her with one hand and pulled out his gun with the other, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam arm himself.

As they got closer he saw her. She was bloody - but  _ her face _ \- her face looked calm, strange…

He stopped the vehicle and looked around quickly before getting out slowly. Sam had his back... _ Sam don’t freeze up again _ ….each footstep brought him closer to the girl...each footstep took him further away from the vehicle and he felt his heart pound. He looked at the ground for tripwires and back up to her, softly speaking in broken Pashto as best he could.  “Little girl - are you hurt?”

She nodded and he came a bit closer, walking carefully. 

He saw her, strangely saw her face flinch even before he heard the noise, even before he felt the searing, burning in his shoulder, even before Sam screamed, he saw her face flinch...he’d been shot.. and then his eyes moved to  _ that man, that man  _ coming out of the vegetation, bigger than anyone had a right to be, staring at him with cold eyes, his smoking gun like a toy in those massive hands.

As Jon was falling he heard Sam yell and another loud noise reverberated across the fields, through his head, palpable and he saw  _ that man’s _ eyes widen in shock and blood start to spurt out of his neck.  _ Sam had shot him. _

_ Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam didn’t freeze up. Wait til I tell Gilly.  _  Jon’s last thought pleased him. He allowed darkness to swallow the noise and the sound and the smell of acrid smoke from the gun and he realized that the ground was soft, it was covered in grass... _ that he might as well be laying in the fields at Winterfell _ ...he was in the green grass for the first time since he had arrived in Afghanistan. 

  
  
  



	27. you’re an embarrassment

Sansa couldn’t believe she finally reached Arya.  She was still on the phone with her as she gathered her purse, grabbed her hotel key….Needed to see her. _Finally._ Finally. Thank God. Arya was alive, at least...although what did she mean... “worse for wear?”

Sansa shook her head. It was enough, it was enough that she’d see her...

Relief propelled her, made her feet light, and she fairly skipped out of the hotel room and down to the lobby, smiling widely as the doorman opened the door for her, smiling at the people on the sidewalk - _oh Arya was alive!_

And so close!  Arya was staying only a few blocks away from Petyr and Sansa’s hotel - perfect. Sansa had never stayed in Le Marais before - the little neighborhood was just _so_ gorgeous. Sansa loved the cadence of Chicago...steel and upright, and exciting and new...but Paris, Paris was soft edges and beige stone and flourishes; it brushed up against her emotions with a lover’s touch. Sansa made her way off the street itself, away from traffic and threaded her way towards a pedestrian square up ahead. She paused to look around as the square unfolded in front of her... gorgeous, gorgeous.  Green ivy cleaved to the side of a building, red umbrellas dotted a square, ahhhh...Paris. Little shops lined the square.   _Will have to come back later.._

Sansa thought about how Arya had answered the phone - her rush of feeling muted after the initial burst, the pause when Sansa asked her to come see her...she must have put her hand over the phone to muffle her words, but Sansa had _heard_ them -  Arya asked, she had actually asked this _Jaqen_ if Sansa could come over!  And Arya’s voice, so tender as she spoke to him- who was this person that would compel Arya to ask permission...as if Arya _ever_ asked for permission for anything!

 _There, there’s the hotel._ Sansa formed her questions for Arya in her mind as she walked into the lobby.  She had the room number...she’d just go up. This hotel is so nice - so much nicer than what Arya would normally pick. Arya liked _“character”_ ... And why are they in a hotel, anyhow?  Didn’t Arya say they were at an apartment...that someone, that Trant guy, had come to find her in ‘their apartment”?

Sansa realized that the last time she’d heard from Arya was that terrifying, terrifying text, when Bran had that dream... _Needed to ask her about that..._

Needed to ask Arya about Jaqen. Needed to ask about the Lannisters, did that Trant guy work for them?  Needed to ask Arya really about what she thought Petyr might be doing.  He’d been so...sober, considerate...normal?  If it hadn’t been _Petyr_ Sansa might almost be attracted to him.  

_Needed to ask her a lot of things._

_Needed to ask her everything._

Sansa punched the elevator button and drew her breath in as it rose, slowly, and when the doors opened she moved into the hallway, noting how the thick pile of the rug enveloped her footsteps, the spray of flowers on an ornate side table, the intricate crown moulding running around the edges of the hallway.

_There, there’s her room._

Sansa took a breath in as she knocked on their door.  And the dam broke - once she started knocking she couldn’t stop, and tears ran down her face and her words sounded croaky through her tears.  “Arya. Arya Arya!”

The door opened and Sansa stepped back. _This must be him. Tall, slender...but sturdy, too, visibly muscled in a tee shirt, god -  he’s handsome, Arya finally found someone who’s handsome._..his eyes smiled at her, and he was opening his mouth to speak, and Sansa just stood there, nailed to the spot, taking in every aspect of this person that had garnered such a significant place in her sister’s life.

“You must be Sansa. Come.” The man opened the door more widely - his voice was low, soft, the accent strange, and Sansa knew she was staring but she couldn’t help it - she moved into the room without thinking as she stared at him, courtesy leaving her….

….and then she saw Arya, _oh Arya!,_ on the bed, her face bruised and beaten.

Sansa flew to her, wrapped her arms around her and felt the sweetness, the overwhelming release of her sister’s embrace.

“Arya. Arya. Are you okay, Arya...what happened to you...who did this?”  Sansa couldn’t stop herself - she pulled back and looked into her sister’s eyes, god - the one ringed in dark purple, abrasions along the side of her face...oh Arya…

Arya pulled her close, uncharacteristically...and then Sansa realized that Arya was shaking, that she was crying too...oh…

They took a minute just to hold each other, and Sansa moved back, grabbing both of Arya’s hands, long fingers intertwining, and pulling herself together, kicking her shoes off and sitting up on the bed with Arya.

“Arya. Tell me. Everything.”

Her sister smiled - Sansa felt a tiny ribbon of exultation creep around her heart - _that smile was Arya, alright_ \- sassy, knowing..but there was a tinge of suggestiveness that was new...

“Well, first of all, Sansa...this is Jaqen.”  Arya smiled over at that man, and Sansa saw quickly how soft her eyes went.

He took Sansa’s hand and squeezed it. “Sansa.”  He smiled at her, gently. “You must have many questions.”

Sansa smiled, and she was glad to meet him... _but Arya’s face_...Sansa had never seen her...injured…why did he let this happen to her?

_How had this happened to them?_

“Yes. And I need you to tell me why my sister has a black eye, why she’s…” Sansa looked over at Arya again, little glints of metal visible behind her hairline, “why she’s in this state…” Sansa felt a bit of anger rise up, rolling into the worry and relief...“Aren’t you supposed to keep her safe?”

He bowed his head and looked back up at Sansa.   _Arya, he’s handsome, at least..there was something very magnetic about him, almost feral...the way he looks at Arya..._

Arya interjected.  “Sansa. Relax…”

“Arya, do _not_ tell me to relax. I come here, and see you like this...and I’m here with Petyr of all things..what in the hell is happening?”  She couldn’t help her voice, it was rising...

Jaqen started to speak, but Sansa raised one hand, forgetting she had just asked him for answers.  “I’m sorry, Jaqen...but I want to hear it from my sister.”

Arya rolled her eyes, but she reached for Sansa’s hand to squeeze it.

“Sansa. Settle in. It’s a long story.” She tossed Sansa a pillow. “It’s a horrible, horrible story, too. Cersei is definitely, most definitely behind mom and dad, behind the boat. And behind all of this. She had her goon come after me and then her brother…” Arya paused, closed her eyes.  “Well, let’s just say Jaqen _handled_ her brother.  All of this - ” Arya gestured towards her head, her eyes - “all of this happened just yesterday, so it’s really fresh.  I’m FINE, though, Sansa.”

Arya sighed and looked over at Jaqen, who nodded.  Again - Arya _almost asking_ permission from him?

“Arya. Can you please, please start from the beginning? Please - so I understand?”  Sansa didn’t know what _handled meant,_ although she had an idea.

Arya nodded, and started to tell Sansa.  And as Arya got to the point of getting hit by Meryn Trant, Sansa could feel herself clutching the pillow Arya had given her.  The sunlight was coming into the window and a sunbeam caught Arya’s face as she spoke, highlighting the deep purple around her eye, turning the gray iris into silver.   _Dad’s eyes._

This was more than she bargained for, when Arya left their apartment in Chicago. This was more than she could have imagined. More dangerous. She had to get her home. She had to.

When Arya finished, she pounced.

“I’m taking you back to Chicago with me.”

“No, San, sorry - I have one thing left to handle here.”  Arya scowled, and Sansa could see the line of her jaw jut out. Typical Arya defiance move; she’d always made the same face when she wasn’t going to give an inch.  Sansa had to dig deep, pull her most Catelyn voice out.

“Arya. You were almost raped, almost murdered. Beaten over the head. I can’t leave you here. Come home.”  Sansa tried to be firm...until she cracked. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Arya reached for her over the bed and Sansa gripped her; her small sister, an animal, slightly wounded, still reluctant to be caged.  Sansa’s tears were quiet, and they breathed in together, breathed the same air. They were one: they were bound, and bound again: sisters who had lost their parents - adrift.

Sansa couldn’t lose her, too, she couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t...

When they broke from their embrace Sansa realized that Jaqen was watching her.

“Sansa. A girl has one more thing to do. I promise you, I promise that I will keep her safe. And when she is finished, I will bring her to you in Chicago.”  Jaqen bowed his head and looked up at her, strangely supplicant.

Sansa bristled. “How can you tell me that? _You promise?!_  Look at what happened to her!”

Jaqen nodded, gravely. “That, that is a mistake a man will never make again.”

Arya’s eyes had hardened, just a little. “Sansa. Give me one week.  I’ll come back to Chicago in one week. Promise.”  She looked over at Jaqen. “And I’m _not_ leaving before that.  So you don’t have a choice.”

Sansa closed her eyes and let silence engulf the room before she sighed.  “No choice. But I don’t have to like it.  What about Petyr? Arya, you wouldn’t even know him on this trip - he’s been so...normal, not at all smarmy; it’s actually much more pleasant than I had anticipated. And _that_ would be strange even if none of _this_ were happening.”

Jaqen frowned. “A man has not heard much about Petyr Baelish lately. Be careful, watch yourself - we will watch you, too.”

Sansa shuddered, the knowledge that Arya’s strange man would watch her giving her both a modicum of relief...and a small sense of dread, that she would even _need_ to be watched.

“I should go.  Arya. _Do not_ ignore my texts, or my calls. Do you understand me? Or I will tell Jon, tell him all of this.”  Sansa stood up from the bed as stiffly as she could and pulled her trump card out.  She noted Arya’s eyes widen for a moment. _Jon. I knew that would work._

Arya got up and hugged her, pressing her head up under Sansa’s neck. She pulled away and opened the door.

“One week, San, one week is all I need.  Call me, let me know how things are going with Petyr - let me know if anything feels strange. Right away, call me. And see me again, if you can before you go.”  

One week. Sansa would hold her to it.   _One week and this nightmare would be over._

  


  
  


“So.  Now you’ve met my sister.”  Arya felt exhausted. She went back to the bed and looked at Jaqen.  He would never….she thought she’d better ask.

“What did you think of her?”  She searched his face. Everyone loved Sansa... Arya always felt so...childish.  Sansa had always been beautiful, graceful, polite...and Arya had always felt so scrubby next to her.  It had waned in recent years...but having her beautiful, willow of a sister float into the room in front of Jaqen...well, she needed to make sure he didn’t fall under Sansa’s spell, too.

“Mmm. She’s very different than a girl.” Jaqen was amused. _Fuck,_ Arya thought, _am I that transparent?_

“Different...how?”  Fuck it. She might as well ask, if he already knew what she was after...

“Well, for one thing…” Jaqen moved over to the bed. “For one thing, she does not have this little mole...right...here.” He kissed her neck. “For another thing, it is like looking at a fierce wolf snarling, next to a nice, soft, obedient poodle.”

Arya teased him.  “Are you calling me a poodle?”

Jaqen eased her back against the pillows. That sly smile spread across his face. “No, lovely girl - you are a wolf, wild and brave and fierce.  A man would never choose have a poodle. But a man would be thrilled if a wolf chose him, graced him with her savage presence.”  

“Mmm.” He had said the right thing. No, he _felt_ the right thing - she knew he wasn’t lying. MMmm...and she closed her eyes and felt the point of his tongue play on her collarbone, softly moving up her neck, gently playing on the outside of her lips before dipping into her mouth, parting her lips, seeking her own tongue.

 _His taste._ Arya kissed him, his lips in turns soft and supplicant and then demanding, more demanding.  She reached her arms up around his neck to pull him on her body; _cover me, cover me with you, all I want is to feel you on me, smell you, taste you...._

His weight was so comforting, the play of his muscles gliding against her as they kissed, his fingers wrapped in the hair at the back of her neck, gently guiding her head, his elbow holding some of his weight off of her. He was gentle and insistent, deft and playful, his mouth hot and wet and hers, hers...

She opened her eyes and watched him as he kissed her, his face impossibly close, every small hair that prickled against her was felt, and noted.  His hardness pressed up against her thigh _.  She wanted him, but now, she just wanted to kiss him... so tired._

Her kisses slowed, and he slowed with her; languorous kisses, the kind of kisses that you enjoy...that you keep…

_So slow…delicious..._

Jaqen eased back from her and kissed her forehead.  “My wolf must rest.”

 _Yes. She was so tired._ “You’ll stay here?”

“Of course, darling girl.”

His voice was all she needed to hear, and he cuddled up against her.

She closed her eyes.

  


 

 

His lovely girl had been asleep for an hour.  Jaqen sat next to her on the bed, watching her chest rise and fall in the soft rhythm of sleep; looked down at her hands, strangely still.  

After a bit he got up from the bed and opened the laptop.  

Oh the Starks...so entangled.  Varys had news.  This lovely girl would want to hear. Varys would come to them, in another hour.  Plenty of time for her to sleep.

A smile played out across his face.  So much the better. Perhaps a girl was not too...optimistic...when she told the sister one week.

He continued working, sending a string of messages, and watching the sunlight start to grow amber in the waning afternoon.

Finished, he went back over to the bed and curled with her, feeling her turn and nestle to him

_Arya Stark, you have completely wrapped me around you, completely stolen me._

He looked at the time and nudged her. “Arya. Arya. Varys is coming. There is news.”

Drowsy. Her voice was drowsy, low - it sounded like sleep and comfort and home.

“Mmmm. News?”

“Yes, lovely girl, and he’s coming here. A man believes that his wolf will be quite pleased.”  He slipped his fingers down the curve of her neck, stroking the hollows of her collarbone. “So, a girl should wake.”  He moved his face down to the soft skin of her belly and breathed on it; moved lower and pulled the leggings down to expose her sex...he wanted a bit of it, just a lick, a taste...and he felt her shiver as he curled his tongue around the small bud of her, and then over the entirety of her sex to taste her, taste her...wake her in the most pleasant fashion.

She moaned slightly and started to move, still heavy with sleep. Jaqen pulled his face away from the tang of her, kissed her stomach and moved up away from the most distracting scent.

He smoothed her, handing her a glass of water and watched the sleepiness start to ease of her face, watched her eyes start to clear, the little lover-smile appear on her face, and as if on cue there was a knock at the door.

He smiled at her as he watched her straighten and opened the door to let Varys in.

Varys was always amorphous, hard to capture, chameleonic and this time was no different. Dressed entirely in black his face was strangely ageless, genderless - he could have been very young or very old; his face looked soft and had a slight sheen.   

He had a bag in one hand and Jaqen smiled.  Good. His wolf needed to feed.

“Arya Stark. I understand that you met Jaime Lannister - perhaps more intimately than you would have preferred.”  Varys looked strangely out of place as he plopped himself down on the foot of the bed.

“I also understand that you need to eat.  Please do - we’ll need you to have your strength and soon.”

Varys was looking at his girl with that strange veiled way of his; looking at her face but searching for something else, some nuance in how she reacted to him - it could have arisen from her hands, from the play of her muscles.  Jaqen watched Arya to see how she responded.

“Thank you. Hello, Varys.” Arya murmured, her eyes darting to the food.  Of course. His ravenous girl - he knew she’d be hungry...he was glad he’d remembered to ask Varys...and he smiled, to think of Varys as an errand-boy for his little wolf…

Good. A girl has chosen graciousness.  

“Quite a bit has happened since we last met, Arya Stark.  I understand that the four of you have taken out many, many of the snakes that surround Cersei.  I wanted to come to you, Arya Stark, to let you know of another snake taken out - one that is quite...impactful...to our entire mission.  And one that impacts you very directly.”

Arya had already torn into the bag that Varys brought and the sound of paper ripping punctuated VArys’ speaking; he was amused.

“Your brother, Arya Stark, your brother Jon.”  Varys brought his hands together and rubbed one fat finger against the others.

His lovely girl stopped - a string of fried potato hanging out of her mouth - and she looked up at Varys. Jaqen could see fear rising.

“Yes, Arya Stark, your brother wanted to investigate Gregor Clegane up close.  Mr. Clegane was instramental in carrying out Cersei’s will on the ground in Afghanistan. Well, dear, your brother went to investigate him.  And Mr. Clegane didn’t like that very much.  So while Mr. Clegane tried his best to...eliminate the threat that Jon Stark posed to him...one of Jon’s men eliminated him.”

His lovely girl still had that fry hanging out of her mouth, her eyes as wide as they could be...the effect would have been comical if the moment hadn’t been so serious.  Jaqen watched her quickly try to eat it so she could speak, and once the fry was completely in her mouth - but before it was swallowed, oh savage girl - Arya spoke.

“Jon? He tried to murder Jon?” Her voice was a squeak, a squeak forced out through a mouthfull of pommes frites.

Varys smiled, gently.  “Yes, dear girl. And Jon did get shot, you know, Gregor Clegane is quite dangerous.  However, he’s much less dangerous once he receives a bullet to the side of the neck, and that’s exactly what one of Jon’s reports did when Clegane ambushed them.”

“Jon is fine, Arya Stark, he’s recovering in a field hospital and will be moved stateside in the next few weeks.  He will have some damage to his shoulder and his arm may never work the same way again...but he is very much alive, and Gregor Clegane is very much dead.”

His lovely girl was speechless and Jaqen watched her eyes continue to stay open as widely as possible, fixated on Varys.

Jaqen decided to interject. After all, it would not do to leave his lovely girl gawping like a fish on a line.

“Ahhh, so the biggest snake is gone. Or almost the biggest snake. Just so. Varys, what is left to be done in Paris? A man would like to take his lovely girl away in a week, back to America. One week, Varys, and no more.”

Varys turned to Jaqen. “There’s really only one thing left to do.  Maybe two - perhaps it wouldn’t do to let that little Trant run around.  But really, Cersei is the only thing left. And after the work that you’ve done, you do realize that you’ve earned yourself enough money to take a little vacation, should you like.”

It was comical to see his lovely girl try to assemble herself; she continued to stare at Varys.

“I have a little bird in Cersei’s house.  Poor little bird, apparently cut her hand up cleaning up after Cersei’s little tantrum last night, broken glass everywhere.  But my little bird tells me that Tywin Lannister plans on leaving this evening.  She also tells me that Cersei is quite distraught. Handle her - but be careful - she’s on the edge and has nothing left to lose.”

Varys sounded like he was talking about a church picnic. His voice was so light, airy.

“Kill Cersei. I don’t care how. Kill Cersei and this is finished.  Of course - Cersei started too many balls rolling, and now we’ll never be free of the effects of her arming insurgent armies in Afghanistan, Syria - but at least when she’s gone the major source of arms will diminish. Kill Cersei, and you are finished.”

  


 

Tywin frowned.

Cersei was trouble. Those books looked quite dangerous. She had completely crossed a line. Several, in fact.

It threatened everything he had worked for, his entire career...while not completely above board, what his daughter was doing was absolutely treasonous.

It threatened the entire legacy of the Lannister name.

He watched his daughter, a drunken mess, try to pull on the strength of the shadow of her former self, and fail.  He was never an outwardly angry man; now he looked at her dispassionately. This woman is a problem. His daughter, his daughter - _a failure_. 

That was enough. _That was quite enough._ Cersei needed to be stopped. And who was working with her now, if Jaime was gone?

Meryn Trant.

Tywin looked over at his daughter, trying to pull a haughty look at him, her fingers trembling and belying her emotional state. He could see the fear rise up from her, as potent and tangible as the smell of alcohol rising from her breath.

Emotions. _Cersei, you’re an embarrassment._

“Cersei.  Give me your phone.” His voice was imperious, low - a command. He watched her eyes widen.

“Give me your phone, and dial Meryn Trant. I have some questions for him.”

Cersei bristled. “He’s on his way over, Father, and we’ll talk to him then.”

Tywin was rapidly losing his patience.   _This will not do._

“Surely you won’t mind if I speak to Meryn myself? Your phone, Cersei. NOW.” He held his hand out and watched her face fall, twist, the mouth ugly as she dialed a number and handed it to him.

“And, I will take this call in Robert’s study. _Alone._ ” He took the phone from her and pressed it to his ear, striding out of the parlor and down the hall into Robert’s study.

He heard Cersei’s footsteps behind him as he opened the door, the big blank frame of what had been a mirror hanging over the fireplace in Robert’s study.  He heard Meryn’s voice come on the other line, and before Cersei could follow him into the room, Tywin turned and looked at her, pitilessly. “I said that I will speak to him alone, Cersei.   

He shut the study doors, her face a reddening, blotchy mask a few inches away from the heavy wood, eyes open wide; he latched the doors and turned to walk across the room to the desk.

  
“Meryn Trant.  This is Tywin Lannister. I have some questions for you.”


	28. All of this can fucking burn….

Sansa had stopped on her way back to the hotel; she picked up some shoes - just breathtaking. Cobalt blue leather, four inch heels - and a strap that tightened around the most narrow part of her ankle.   _ There, now she wouldn’t be lying when she told Petyr that she had done some shopping... _

Back in her hotel room she showered, prepared herself. They were supposed to have meet in an hour.  Sansa wanted to be ready. 

She decided to take a bath; she had also stopped at a little Parisian store that smelled like heaven and picked up some more weapons for her arsenal - a little boutique scent that she’d put on later, and some soft, lemony soap.

The water was hot, ready; Sansa slid one foot in, to test it. Almost too hot. She slid her body in and gently eased in all the way.

Take it away...take it all away...the water loosened her muscles and she looked down at herself. Her breasts were floating, nipples breaking the surface of the water, copper strands of her hair waving in the movement of the water, her pale skin reddening from the heat.  She took the soap and pulled one leg out of the water and then the other, sudsing herself and then following with a razor to smooth them.

She moved down, closer to her sex and lathered the fine hairs; she’d smooth herself out. Might as well. The razor slicked as she bared herself, leaving the smallest patch of red hairs.

_ Test her work.  _ She moved a finger down to feel the smoothness.  _ Approved. _ And she lay there in the bath, absentmindedly stroking herself, thinking about her night...she wasn’t driven to lust...but curiousity? Excitement?

She had been with Wilas - sweet, steady Willas - for years.  It had been convenient, delightful - certainly photogenic, as they’d graced several of Chicago’s glossy society magazines together.  

_ But when had it felt dangerous, exciting? _

Her fingers couldn’t stop touching the smoothness of her sex and she trailed them around the edges of herself, moving up to touch the sensitive skin of her stomach.

The water had cooled by the time she was ready to get out, and she’d brought herself close to cresting but not all the way.  The keening need for satisfaction was still there.

_ Good. She’d use it. He’d be able to tell, he’d see it on her face, in her movements.  _

Sansa dressed herself.

A backless, black dress and those blue heels.  A lapis necklace around her neck. Her hair, wound up into a loose chignon.  The faintest smear of berry stain on her lips.  A touch of fig, vanilla dabbed against her neck. And the smallest scraps of lace from her suitcase, covering her sex; rubbing up delightfully against the silky skin of her cunt, still  _ needing _ from her bath.  

Sansa shivered.  Maybe this  _ is  _ lust. 

Dressed, ready...and so was Petyr, apparently. He’d texted twice while she was in the bath. 

Sansa purred in her head.  She was ready. Let’s do this.

Wine in her room beforehand?   _ Of course... _

Sansa quickly picked up her things, and noted that the room smelled like the lemony soap, the slightest bit of humidity clinging to the air, a tangible soft presence in the room.  She arranged herself and waited for Petyr to knock at the door. 

When he finally did, Sansa felt suddenly shy.  What was she doing? And which Petyr would she get?

The sober, quiet, mysterious Petyr….apparently.

“Sansa, darling. You look stunning.” 

He looked at her with visible appreciation and she slid one leg over the other when she recrossed them. 

“Paris. I love it. I had such a good day today - I’m so sorry that you couldn’t join me!  I did do some shopping, since I  _ had _ to occupy myself.”  Sansa indicated the shoes and she watched as Petyr’s eyes travelled down her legs and rested on her feet, his eyes travelling over each red tipped, delicate toe. 

“It appears that you did a fine job occupying yourself.”

Sansa stifled a little smile.  _ If only he knew. _

“So tonight. Petyr, you haven’t given me any clue as to what we’ll be doing?  Wine, here first?”

Petyr smiled and looked over at her, his finger trailing to his goatee, flecked in gray.  “Sansa. I was able to find a most rare bottle of wine. I thought we could start with that here - and then move to dinner, talk a walk by the Eiffel Tower, just like good little tourists.  Does that sound okay?”

He had a strange look on his face.  Sansa could not tell what he was up to.  The wistful, serious look...almost guilty...indecipherable. Sansa suppressed a shiver. 

“That sounds lovely, Petyr. I have to ask, though - are you okay?  You seem so...serious.” Sansa didn’t know if it would be helpful for her to bring the fact that Sansa could tell he was off to his attention...but she wanted to shake this strange Petyr.   _ The wanting, a gnawing, keening feeling...pulsing in time with her blood, overtaking her stomach, thighs... _

Petyr’s eyes flashed some strange emotion and then cleared. He smiled at her. “I’m quite alright, darling.  Here, I brought some glasses...let me open the bottle for you.”

He held the bottle with one hand and quickly brought the cork out with a satisfying pop. “Sansa, dear, find us some music - this suite should have a stereo.”

He turned to pour the two glasses of wine.

Music? What should she put on?  She flipped it on and let it play - John Coltrane, American jazz...fine...french pop music was just so awful...

Petyr handed her a glass and raised it. “Cheers Sansa. To old friends.”  He took a deep drink.

Sansa took a small drink - Petyr was right, it was lovely; she tasted the full burst of raspberries at the top of the wine and as it went down her throat a leathery, smoky body was left behind. The aftertaste was almost..mineral? Delicious. She took another drink.

Petyr moved to the window as she took one more drink.  Quite possibly the best wine she’d ever had. 

She felt it, felt it move through her veins, and walked over towards him. Emboldened. She stood next to him looking out the window. In the distance the Centre Pompidou was lit up, barely visible from their vantage point, but a strange point of light...almost, pulsating.  _  Sansa, you fool, you can’t drink that much wine so fast.  _

She steadied herself. 

“Sansa, darling, if you could be anywhere else in this world, where would you be right now?” Petyr’s tone was thoughtful. 

Sansa looked out at the sky, looked out at beautiful Paris.

“This is hard to beat, Petyr.” She tilted her head, leaned it against his shoulder without thinking. 

And pulled it up, when she realized.  _ Too much wine! _

“Ah, sweet Sansa, yes...but...I’m sure you’d rather have Willas here?” Petyr’s tone was...wistful?

“Petyr. He’s not here, though, is he?” Oh that wine made her say it; she felt her words slurring…her body felt heavy.

She staggered. 

Petyr steadied her. “Oh Sansa. You should lay down.”

He didn’t seem...surprised?  Sansa’s thoughts were moving in slow motion...but she was ridiculously drunk...

And as she went to move towards Petyr, she looked down in her cup, trying not to drop it.

And visible, now that the wine was diminished, was a white grit covering the bottom of her glass.

He had...poisoned her?

“Petyr...what did you put in my drink?”  Her mouth felt dry, overtaken by the mineral taste in her mouth...a taste morphing into a very distinct alkaline dryness.

“Sansa. Darling. I’m so sorry.”  He looked at her, moved closer to her.

“I wouldn’t have done this, but.. Sansa, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Here, come with me. You need to lay down.”

She dumbly stared at him.  _ What did he do to her? _ She could feel her body start to get heavier.  _ Petyr Fucking Baelish poisoned her!  _  She started to panic...but through a bit of a fog...as she slowed down, the room slowed, the lights blurred in her vision.  She felt Petyr’s hand pull her up, pull her over to the bed, she couldn’t speak....she didn’t feel her feet touch the ground...she moved in slow motion, somehow, positioned on her bed.. _.fucking hell... _

“Sansa, my love.  I’m so sorry.” She looked at his face and saw it: a look of pain over his features, his forehead creased... _ why... _

She needed...to...call… Arya. She needed...to...get...up.  Sansa couldn’t move, she couldn’t, she felt so heavy, everything was so heavy...and her eyes, she struggled to keep them open...but as they closed she felt the brush of Petyr’s goatee on her forehead, his sadness...his strangeness….he poisoned her...but he was sorry…

  
  
  
  


Cersei stomped outside the study.  She didn’t care that Tywin knew. Taking her own phone!  Calling her own man!  

_ Trant better not say a fucking word! _

This was her company, her company, and now that she finally had Robert out of the way, and Ned, and all the rest of them she’d run it the way she wanted to, the way she had always wanted to run it.  Fucking fools! She’d made more money in a few months then fucking Robert had made in a year! 

What was he talking to Meryn about??  Oh he could not leave soon enough. His fucking plane was leaving in an hour.  He couldn’t talk to Trant for much longer and Trant had better not say a thing, that fucking fool, that fucking useless, useless idiot...

She wanted to break through the door. She wanted to run in there and steal the phone out of his hand.  Her own fucking father, doing this to her!

And Petyr with that Stark girl...why didn’t he just bring her here?  Instead telling Meryn Trant to come and get her later? Drag her body from the hotel? That...would be difficult. Cersei had told him, told him to bring her here. She wanted Trant to handle it, handle it in front of her.  No one would fucking listen, that was her whole fucking problem - the only person that would listen was Jaime and he was gone, gone, gone…

Cersei didn’t care what he heard; she couldn’t make out his words and didn’t care to try, to be silent.  She grabbed a vase and threw it at the door. 

She sunk down onto the floor, feeling a shard of glass dig into her thigh.  That fucking maid - she saw her down the hall!   _ Staring at her, always staring _ ...Cersei found a big piece of glass and threw it towards her, her own blood running down her arm when she pulled it back down…

_ Jaime wouldn’t let any of this happen…. _

She sat breathing heavily on the floor of the hallway, waiting for her fucking father to come out.

_ Trant wouldn’t tell him, Trant wouldn’t tell him… _

She heard Tywin’s footsteps come to the door. She should get up. No.  _ Let him see her like this, look at what he’d done to her! _

Her father opened the door, and threw her phone down to her. 

“Do you always throw a tantrum when you don’t get your way, Cersei?  Of course, you did that as a child…” He raised his eyebrow at her.  Is he  _ actually _ mocking her?

She could not suppress her fury any longer. 

“Father. You decided to talk to Trant. I hope it was worth it. You won’t be talking to me again, any time soon.”  She hissed the words out, fuck him, he’d lose all of his children, and his grandchildren….

He smirked, he actually smirked at her!

“Cersei. You are completely out of control. Trant has confirmed it. You will be under my ward as your conservator.  As well as all of your business dealings from here on out.  This - this is madness, and what you’ve done with your company is beyond twisted. I will not have the Lannister name dragged into that.  The papers will be drawn up when I return home.”

_ Conservator? As if she was crazy? He’s taking over?  _ Cersei blinked - and then recovered.  She stood up as gracefully as she could, raised her chin up in the air. 

“I refuse. And you can’t put me in a conservatorship? I’m not fucking insane, Father.” She hissed, hissed the words out at him.  “And you can’t just have the papers drawn up. I’ll go to the press. I would never sign that, never, ever...”  She tried to be cold...but she was burning... _ a conservatorship...as if she was fucking crazy…. _

Tywin grabbed her. Cold. A snake, flicking. His hands were iron on her shoulders, and his voice was low, his face right next to hers…

“I don’t need you to sign anything, Cersei. I don’t need you to do anything. The lawyers are mine, the court is mine...I don’t need you to do anything except get your fucking mind back. I will not have you ruin our family’s name.”

He gave her shoulders a quick, violent shake and she felt her feet crunch on the glass below.

“I’m going home. Goodbye, Cersei. Try not to get into any more...trouble.”

Cersei watched him walk down the hallway, seething, and when she heard the front door close she walked into fucking Robert’s study. 

There. The decanter. She looked down at her phone. Meryn...the call, but there was a text too…

She poured herself a goblet of wine and steadied herself, in front of Robert’s fucking desk, gaudy, horrible…

She looked at Meryn’s text. 

Clegane was…

Who…

_ Gregor Clegane was dead. _

Her point person on the ground. The lynchpin for her sales. Her liaison.

Shot dead. 

Cersei couldn’t take any more. She couldn’t take it, couldn’t take it.  She drained her glass and walked over to the fireplace.  The matches. There.  

She grabbed one and lit it, letting it burn down until her fingers got uncomfortably hot.  She pulled out another one...again. She flicked it on Robert’s stupid chair, his stupid fucking chair...Tywin had sat in that chair, and Jaime had bent her over it...and that stupid fucking chair remained even when all of them were gone…

She needed to cleanse herself, get rid of all of this... _ all of them _ ….she lit another match and tossed it onto that fucking chair.

She watched as it burnt out. The failure of the chair to catch on fire was even more infuriating.   _ Burn. Burn. All of this can fucking burn…. _

She flicked her eyes around the room. Jaime’s whiskey. It sat on a table...he had drank some the last time she saw him, he was drunk, drunk when he left...she grabbed the heavy crystal bottle and threw it on the chair, expecting to see it break apart... _ fucking can’t even break the fucking decanter. _ ..she was so furious she couldn’t see straight.

_ I’ll fucking pour the whole thing out, then. _ Cersei picked it up and dumped it onto the chair. She lit another match.  _  Burn. Clean it out.  _

A small flicker appeared, and Cersei watched fascinated as the fingers of flame moved up a pillow and started crackling as it engulfed the tassels.  Those fucking tassels. Cersei stared; the flames were growing, growing.  Soon the chair was completely lit, heat from the fire radiating towards her.  She moved back to her wine glass, filled it...and the fire, so beautiful, started to jump from the chair and catch on the rug…

Cersei finished her wine, again, and walked out of the study, pausing to turn in the doorway...yes...the desk...the desk.. _.burn it all. _

She walked downstairs and out the door.   _ Let it fucking burn. _

  
  
  
  


 

He had been waiting for this.  Waiting to touch her hair, thinking about it for years.  Yet he never thought it would be like this…

Petyr stared down at Sansa. Her mouth was totally slack, and he could see saliva pooling near her mouth. Her neck, her neck was at a strange angle.

She’d be fine, oh she’d be fine...until Trant came to get her, and do god knows what to her.

It was really too bad.  If Cersei hadn’t put such...commanding... price on her head…

Five million dollars to deliver Sansa. The drugs were Cersei’s suggestion, her attempt to sweeten the pot for him with a completely...compliant Sansa. Cersei, that cunt - she knew, she knew Sansa was his soft spot. She knew it. And to be able to completely fuck her, one final hurrah before Trant picked her up...take her, make her completely his..

Oh, Cersei knew him well alright...that was _ her  _ suggestion...

Petyr stroked Sansa’s neck, put his face against her breath, feeling it up against his cheek.

She was so beautiful. She was so graceful. Sansa looked like a swan, she was so gorgeous out in front of him, he ached to have her, he had ached for years to take her…

He looked at the little hairs of her eyebrows, looked at fine hairs along her temples, a beautiful blue stone hanging down onto her chest.

_ Oh Sansa… _

He should be getting hard by now. Her legs are sprawled out; he can see each and every curve in front of him. She smells...she smells like...abundance, she smells like life and fertility and sex. He should be taking her.  After all - that was the whole plan.

Petyr reached down to himself. 

Nothing. Why don’t I….

_ I don’t think...I don’t think I can do it. _

Petyr sat next to her form, lifeless save for a steady rise and fall, for half an hour. Watching her.  He thought about what was supposed to happen next. 

I can’t. I can’t. He tapped out a message to Meryn Trant, that she had left, a lie.   _ That goon can’t come and get her if he doesn’t think she’s here.  _

He couldn’t hurt Sansa.  He needed...needed to protect her.

He looked at her face and moved his mouth in front of her lips, her jaw slack.  He kissed her gently and then settled down beside her, stroking her hair.

_ Beautiful Sansa. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I will keep you safe.  _

  
  


 

 

Gaani stretched. 

He and Kate had been in a holding pattern for the past day.  They’d also been practically on top of each other: Varys had put them in a studio apartment. 

A most slow day..but typical, once they were close to the apex of a job, when they were biding their time, when they were getting ready to give the gift to the head of a snake…

What was  _ not _ typical was to have company to wait with. 

Kate was curled up at the arm of the couch.  They had decided to trade off; they went to a bookstore and each picked out books, and while one person scanned intelligence, the other would sit in blessed silence and read.

It was...companionable.  It was quite nice

As Gaani looked over his feed again, he decided he would like to continue working this way. To have a partner.   He found a file, took a screenshot, commenced typing the notes to go along with it and when finished, looked back over at Kate, a few strands of hair escaping her ear only to be twirled precisely in her fingers.

She must have felt him staring.  _ Of course she did. She is a trained assassin. _

Gaani smiled broadly at her and nodded, and looked back at his data. 

  
  
  
  


 

Food….oh Arya couldn’t stop eating...she had slowed down while Varys was here, but once he left...oh, thank god he’d brought food.

She had been...famished. 

“Hey!  At least he brought me food!”  She caught Jaqen snickering at her, that little joke smile over his face.  At least he wasn’t mooning over her anymore - she’d also caught him with a concerned look on his face when she winced as she started chewing. 

_ No big deal. No big deal, Jaqen, just move it to the other side of your mouth.  Pain is just an illusion, it fades, it tells you that you are alive…. _

“A man does not bring one meal, and suddenly he is castigated?  Tell me, Arya Stark, where is the justice in that.  A man has fed you endlessly.”  Oh, his face, the look on his face, always so sly….Arya couldn’t stand it. 

“Jaqen, you could never, ever feed me enough.”  Arya grinned, sat back.  “It’s your job to feed me, you know. If you can’t handle it, let me know now, before Chicago…”  

He frowned, just a little bit, and a  _ look  _ came over his face. 

“So tell me, Arya Stark, how long does a girl want to stay in Chicago?”  He was serious, the mocking aside, and Arya realized that they hadn’t talked about what was next, hadn’t put anything concrete down.  Their declaration to Sansa was the first flag in the sand. 

It was too scary, too scary when she didn’t know what they were facing. 

But now was time to talk about it.

She cocked her head. “Long enough to get Sansa off my case.  Long enough to air out my apartment.  Long enough to show you all of my haunts.”

“So. I will come with you?”  Jaqen’s voice was tender, soft.

“Of course!  Did you think you were not?”  Arya was surprised.  Hadn’t they…

“Traveling around the world with a man is one thing; coming home, staying with her is something else entirely.” Jaqen spoke slowly. “Does a girl want me to come home with her?”

“Well. What if...what if I want you to do both of those things?”  Arya moved over to him.  “What if I tell you I  _ need _ you to do both of those things? Forever?”

Jaqen smiled, and it was the sweetest thing that she’d ever seen in her life: the tips of his teeth visible, his eyes widening, and she kissed him and closed her eyes to keep the sight of it.

“Jaqen.”  she whispered. “If Tywin leaves tonight, we should handle Cersei. Let’s do it. Let’s finish it.”

“A girl is ready?” He smiled at her.

She took a breath in.

Was she ready?

_ Almost. _

“I need you, first.” She breathed.

His smile turned suggestive. 

“A man  _ does _ like to be needed.”

_ Oh oh. _

He continued, moving towards her, and pushing up against her until her back hit the wall.  “Because a man needs something, too.”

He whispered in her ear. 

“A man needs to fuck his lovely girl, fuck her in every way possible, a man needs to hear her say his name.  And then, later, he needs to watch his glorious girl rain down havoc on the one who deserves it the most.”

His whisper deepened.

“And then he needs to fuck her again.”

Oh. 

“So that’s what a man needs?  Isn’t it…” Arya pushed him back, pulled her shirt off …”nice when a girl needs that, too?”

She felt her lust rise up, her bloodlust behind it, buoying, red, hot, wet. 

She took her pants off and stood in front of him

“In every way possible?  Oh, you’re going to have to show me.” 

“A man would like nothing else.”

He nipped down her throat, nipped down her neck until he reached one of her breasts, the pink crown stiffened, responsive, and she sucked her breath in and hooked a leg over his waist. She wanted him. She wanted him now, before they handled Cersei. 

All of the little movements that inspired pain from her hurts, she ignored them - no, she rode them so that they were part of her pleasure, and she whimpered as his teeth closed on her nipple, ground into him, an animal.

“Arya.” He said her name and picked her up, moving her to the bed, watching her greedily as her hand went between her legs while he undressed, putting her fingers in her mouth to taste her wetness and reaching out to his mouth.  

“Suck, Jaqen.”

The grip of his mouth, the suction of it on her fingers, his free hand moving down to her cunt...the feeling of it.  Arya fluttered her eyes at him and ground into his hand, moaning a little bit when she felt his fingers slip in. She rocked against his fingers until they cupped her right where she wanted them to...scissoring up against the wall of her cunt, the most sensitive place, more...

He let go of her fingers and she felt his mouth get closer to her, the pain of a too-savage kiss against her mouth, the languorousness of earlier kisses a bubble floating away, and now she didn’t care, she wanted him, wanted him...she pushed his head down.

She gasped as she felt the stubble of his face come into contact with her sex; he hadn’t shaved and the contrast between his fingers and face was unbearable. Electric little pain pulses shot through her, dulled by the malleable tongue, falling into every place it needed to, now sharp and pointed and relentless against her clit as he sucked in tandem with his fingers pulsing against her.

“Jaqen. Fuck me.” She groaned.

He pulled his face away from her. 

“Does a lovely girl want something?”

He stood over her and sheathed himself in her, watching her take him inch by torturous inch, until they had joined, and rolled his hips in a circle.  She felt a hand on her breast, too much, it was too much, and he started to move, he tried to move but each thrust only felt like it brought him deeper into her, that he would become one with her, he would join with her.

He stopped himself, standing on the edge of the bed with her pale body laid out to him, his cock deep within her.  “Arya. Arya Stark. I love you so.”

She reached for him, wriggling against him as he moved down to meet her.

“Yours, I am yours.” She whispered.

That was enough, that was enough to release his frenzy again, and he bucked his hips against her, watching her body move under him, the wonder of it, his, his….

And each movement of him made her move up to meet him, and they raced and slowed, and she felt her face contort as she couldn’t take him, fit inside of her, perfect, harder...now.

She felt herself crest and a wave of wetness wash over him, and he responded with a growl, his release.

She pulled him down to her, and held him, panting, their sweat slicking between them.

As their breaths cooled, she moved out from underneath him, feeling the power return to her arms and legs, rejoining, and the clarity come back to her thoughts.  She laughed.

“That was not _ every way possible, _ Jaqen.”

Jaqen looked down sheepishly. “You make me lose restraint, Arya. Later. After. Slowly.”

She smiled.

_ Yes. After.  _

We are going to kill Cersei. Tonight. 

_ Oh, a girl is ready, now.  _

  
  
  


 

Jaqen needed to make sure that a girl was ready. 

He shrugged into his clothes and then looked at his girl, silent, steeling herself against what was to come.

He took a cool washcloth and wiped her down, watching the skin glisten after the cloth imparted soft moisture to her hot skin and wiping her again.  And then dressed her; helping her slip a tee shirt on, tugging underwear up over her hips and pulling jeans up and over her legs.

He brought her the kevlar vest, Varys’ first gift to her, and fastened it tightly against her chest.

He reached onto the table and handed her one gun, the silencer on it, fastened it to her.

He placed the sheath of her knife onto her forearm, and then slid the blade in.

Finished with her armaments, he pulled a black jacket out of her pack and slipped her arms through, making sure that everything was within reach.

He kissed his lovely girl on the eyelids and marveled at her composure.  If she had been molten under his fingers earlier she was ice now, she was stone, her face impassible as she gravely considered their next move. 

He tapped a message out on his phone, grabbed his key, and they walked out of the too-bright hotel lobby and into the Parisian night. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again unbeta'd, barely edited, sorry.


	29. a good dream

_Let it burn._

 

The maid was inside, let her handle it - or not - it can just burn. _Let her fucking burn with it._ He could care less.  It was gone, they were all gone. It might as well fucking burn…

Cersei strode down her stairs and outside into the comforting dark of night.  Her flat opened onto a quiet side street, topiaries and iron railings as sentries... but she could see the boulevard ahead, could see herds of people, herds of them crossing it..too many tourists, pretending like they were pious and fucking holy as they walked up the Eglise St Germain des Pres, pretending to pray as they took their fucking pictures, pretending to think while they sat at Cafe Deux Magots like they were the fucking second coming of Sartre…when they were just a bunch of stupid, clingy blank eyed cows in the way...

She stalked towards them, needing to feed her anger, which felt strangely out of place outside of her flat. The walls had kept it tight around her...now she felt alien, a stranger…unable to comprehend why she felt so different around these people, why these people were such fucking cows milling around her.

_What are you fucking smiling about?_

_No one would even look her in the eye._

Tywin taking over Baratheon Inc. _That fucking righteous bastard._ A conservatorship! How can she get it back, what would she have to do...he fucking _took_ it from her...

The anger that Cersei felt inside her flat felt bigger, more palpable outside.  The walls had kept it in, kept it tight around her, strangling her - but out here, in the streets, shocks of anger rained out of her as she looked at everyone, burning her.

And what was she left with.

_Nothing. Nothing. Nothing._

Paris. She strode down its streets, looking with distaste as she walked block after block. There wasn’t anything left for her, here.  Paris had been Robert’s idea.  Paris was the city that stole Jaime from her. Moscow, where her traitorous father lived.  Nothing left for her in Europe.

Cersei needed something new.  A restart. A rebirth.

Maybe the Middle East, maybe Dubai. Maybe Istanbul.

Maybe Singapore.

Fuck these cows.

Cersei let the hatred radiate off her body, her distaste, her utter contempt for these people.   _Enough._

Cersei turned on her heel, bumping into a woman behind her. She glared and started to march back towards her flat.  Away from these people, people as far as the eye can see.

Cersei scanned the crowd. Noises, chatter punctuating the air. This fucking herd. The lovers were the worst. She looked up the street, turned to look behind her.  A woman, slight and thin with her lover.  She had a scarf on her head, she flitted like a bird from step to step.  The man with her was strange, feline.  But that woman...something about her...

Cersei turned on her heel, bumping another pedestrian, trying to get closer. That woman...As she got closer she realized that woman had turned as well, her and the man were walking aimlessly in the other direction now. She had a headscarf on, was adjusting it; she’d turn suddenly; she’d look away when she was in Cersei’s clear line of sight.

_Who is that woman?_

She walked closer, until that woman turned off the boulevard, up a side street just a block away from Cersei’s flat. _Fuck it. She’s no one. She’s nothing. Worthless._

When Cersei reached the side street to cross she looked up and saw the man, saw that woman, saw her face... _curious_...that man trying to keep her..from...

 _Who is this fucking woman?_ Cersei glared at her, and for a moment she looked back at her. The air stilled, all the voices and noise vanished.   _I see you._ Their gazes held. Cersei reeled, reeled with the recognition, a ghost’s cold fingers come back to touch her.  

 

_Fucking Lyanna Stark.  Robert’s Lyanna._

 

_No. That can’t be right.  That little Stark. The littlest Stark._

Realization rose like the sun illuminating the city in the morning. Cersei smiled. They were coming to her. _Let them._

She turned and walked back towards her house.

  
  
  


Jaqen had watched Arya from a few steps behind. She slipped down the sidewalks noiselessly. His lovely girl was a specter, a wraith. It was magnificent to see. She was like a ballet dancer, flitting between groups of people, blending in and then forging ahead.

He could watch her forever.

He let the distance span between them, to better watch her practice her craft.   _She still hurts._ He could see a tenderness to one of her feet each time it fell, he saw her reach up to rub her temple right below the staples.  She had brushed his worries, his guilt away with irritation, insisted she was fine - _of course she did._

 _It is only done without the effort._ She is effortless, natural, even as she waves away the pain.  The curve of her wrist flashed white in a streetlight. The line of it made him die, a little bit, that sweet arm, the thought of it curled around his neck, bending him down to kiss that mouth, her problem of a mouth...wrapping around him...obscene and beautiful...

_She wanted to see Cersei bleed tonight. But perhaps it would be better to have waited, to make his lovely, impatient girl wait until the moment was right._

_But then his reward would wait as well._

And she is mine, mine.

He felt himself stiffen, engorge, brush almost painfully against his pants as he thought of taking her, over and over again.

He caught up with her - they were only a few blocks from the boulevard, and the crowd would thicken. He did not want to lose her...and they were getting close to Cersei’s flat.  This thing would need to be divined - Jaqen did not have a complete floor plan of the flat.  But he had given his lovely girl an approximation of the key _\- Varys’ little bird had been most useful._

_Mine, she is mine, she is mine._

She’d worn a headscarf again, to have something to hide her beautiful bruised face behind.  Strangely out of place in this tony neighborhood, yet she walked with confidence.

 _Perhaps if ever a man needed to handle another snake, sometime far away, she would join him again._  She could be lethal, she could be frightening and terrible.

 

Oh he wanted to see that.

 

His pulse quickened, and he moved faster to catch up with her.

A few steps behind her she whirled before he could reach her.  “I caught you, Jaqen H’ghar.”  Her smile was incandescent, it lit up her face...and he wanted to kiss her right there, take her up against the street, fill her...

“A man can be caught, over and over again, should a girl wish.”

He smiled at her; oh this would be over and soon. And when it was...

When she broke away he saw her stiffen. His puzzle, his prize - he saw her every nerve respond, she stood up straight and then looked away, quickly, her eyes glittering.

“Cersei is here. She’s right there, walking past the newsstand.  She’s coming towards us. Fuck, Jaqen.”

Jaqen waited for a heartbeat until the crowd thickened enough to give them cover and quickly steered her the other way.  They’d walk in front of Cersei, if they needed to.

“Don’t look back, Arya Stark.”

“No shit, Jaqen….”  Arya rolled her eyes at him, smiling...but he could hear her voice pitch just a bit, the excitement heating her cheeks.

The snake continued to walk behind them; Jaqen caught little glimpses of her in his peripheral vision.

“Cersei is alone.  She has nothing with her - she is not armed, she has no purse. I do not see Trant anywhere. It looks like the snake just wanted to slither out of her den.  Perhaps Tywin left and she needed some air.” He paused. “Does Cersei know what you look like?”

Arya answered quickly. “She’d only seen me when I was 9 or 10. There’s no way she could recognize me from that.”

Jaqen nodded. “Good.”

“Here. Turn. Do not look away from me.”  Jaqen took Arya’s arm and pointed her down a sidestreet.  They walked up a bit and then slowed down, _just two lovers on the sidewalk, nothing, nothing._ “Keep your eyes on me, Arya.”

His bloodthirsty girl, she tried, she tried...he could see her fight herself to try to keep her eyes on him. _Lovely girl, just trust me, just look at me._

He could see her will ebbing and when she _did_ turn her head he could not stop her, as a tall stately figure crossed with a group of pedestrians and then paused to look up the street.

It was her.

_It was Cersei._

Oh his lovely girl _had_ turned to look, and he saw their eyes meet...saw the surprise, then cruelty take over in Cersei’s eyes.   _Cersei knew her._

Arya made a strange noise, a low, guttural growl rippling out of her throat, and reached for the gun at her hip.

“Lovely girl, not here!” Jaqen was alarmed. “There are too many people on the boulevard, it would be too difficult to cover.  Come. We will meet her at her own house.”

“I can’t believe it’s her. She fucking found us. Meryn Trant isn’t there, is he?”  For a split second worry slipped its dark cold fingers over the face of his girl.

“No, Arya Stark, not at the moment.”

“Then you will let me take her, at her house, on my own?”  Arya’s teeth shone in the streetlights, white light glinting off of them.

“Let us see when we get there, lovely girl.”

Jaqen’s smile spread. Oh his ravenous girl...he would take her after this, he would let her kill this snake, this most personal of missions for her, and he would exalt in her strength…she was Artemis, strong, wild, true - but she would writhe underneath him...he would fill her... _what spell is this..._

_Yes. Take her, beloved._

  
  
  
  
  


Cersei left that little Stark. Oh she’d let her come, alright. Go ahead. Cersei would wait.

She strode the few blocks to her house, and when she opened the door, the smell of burnt fabric, acrid, filled her nose.  

She walked into Robert’s study.  The frame of the chair was still smoldering, the rug was darkened; that fucking useless maid was on her knees, trying to clean up the mess - she must have used a fire extinguisher because the fucking foam was all over the room.

_A fucking mess._

“Jeyne.” That insolent little bitch hadn’t even looked up at her. “Jeyne!”

Those eyes, staring up at her.

When the door opened, Cersei stared at her imperiously.  “You can leave now.”

“But, madame, I’m not finished…” Oh that insolent little cunt!

“Now. Get out.”  Cersei walked past the foam to the decanter. “And leave the door unlocked.”

 

_Let them come to her._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Jeyne had to leave. Cersei is back.”

Gaani read the text to Kate, and they paused for a moment. Maybe it was for the best. Trant was heading towards the flat, Cersei was dangerous...it was not a good time to be a little bird in a Lannister apartment.

Gaani sent a text; his brother needed to know. He and Kate continued their slow march towards Cersei’s flat.  They would hurry once they gave Jaqen a chance to find Cersei, but for now they walked together, silently.

It was quiet. But it was nice, different.

Gaani had thought about this. He had thought about it all week, he had never considered before the concept.   When he came to work with Varys, the shadowy others that he shared a bond with were usually unseen. He worked alone. And after he was finished, he cleansed himself alone, cleansed his soul alone; prayed and thought and waited for his next assignment.

He did not need a lover. He had his wife and children as treasured, worshipped talisman, protecting him. He did not want a lover.

He put his phone in his pocket and stopped, leaning up against the wall of a busy cafe.

“Kate.” She had stopped beside him, cocking her head to assess the passerby, a curious look on her face as he stood there.

“Travel with me. Work with me. I was in love once, Kate. I _was_ love once, it was every part of me. I don’t think I will ever be in love again.”  Gaani spoke plainly.

“I don’t understand.”  Kate was confused.

“I want you to stay with me. I don’t want a lover. You will never love. You do not know how to, really. I just want a companion. It is enough.”

She nodded her head, robotically, and he heard her low voice, her words modulated.   “It _is_ enough.”

They walked on.

  
  
  


Cersei’s heart skittered, her movements felt strangely leaden in contrast to the flashing emotions running through her.   _Finally._ They killed Jaime. They will pay, oh if only that little Stark could die a thousand times.  And they were coming to her. Very well, she would wait.

She turned the light off.   _So much better to see you in the streetlights,_ little Stark bitch, and so much harder for you to see _me_ when you come into my house.  Into _his_ house.

Cersei took another drink. _This is for you, beloved.  If_ Jaime were here, he would stop her now, Jaime would talk her out of it, cajole her, put his hands on her hips and press himself against her, he’d push his perfect cock into her, the gasping surprise of the head, the smooth pleasure as his shaft parted her slickness...he’d make her forget all about this...

_Jaime’s not here, though…_

Cersei was ready. She had been quick, coming up the stairs. She had found - after some looking - some rope in the room where that Jeyne cunt did their laundry.  She had also grabbed two knives from a drawer in Robert’s desk - he had blathered on about them, some special type of steel.

 _Whatever._ They were sharp and they were ready.  

And Cersei didn’t have to wait too long to see two shadowy figures outside, stealthily, carefully come up the stairs to her front door.

_The absolute audacity._

Cersei took another drink and grinned, absolutely grinned.   _Their fucking audacity. Let it be their undoing._

She moved away from the window and stood in the shadows by the open study door, waiting to hear footsteps up the staircase.

She didn’t have to wait long. She felt herself shiver with excitement.  They were coming, coming…

The lighter footsteps first. _Ah, better, that little Stark bitch._ The other footsteps, the man’s, were a few meters behind…Trant was coming, Trant could take _him._..but the Stark bitch was hers...

Time stood still, the wavelengths of sound slowed for Cersei and she concentrated every breath, everything, on each footfall that she heard coming down the hall.

Hunted, hunter, the line blurred and all Cersei could feel was revenge, a little Stark who dared come to her, to her!

_She would catch her._

Cersei heard the lighter footsteps grow closer to the study and she could see her!  Unbelievable! The little useless Stark whore was poking her fucking head in!  

 _Enough._ Cersei moved.

She grabbed that little bitch by the scarf and whatever hair she could grab and slammed her down into the ground.   _Satisfying._ Cersei wheeled to shut and bolt the heavy doors. Fucking lock YOU out. _That man can listen to her scream her useless Stark screams as I kill her._ The girl was scrambling back up, her hand reaching into her waistband.  Cersei jumped down on her, pinning her. _Stupid little Stark girl. She’s trying to fucking shoot me?_

Faster than she thought possible, this was happening too fast. Cersei looked for something to hit her with. Another one of Robert’s fucking deer statues. Side table. Right there.  Cersei grabbed it and slammed it into the side of the little Stark’s head, with all of her might, the might of all of the Lannisters, Jaime’s hand guiding her…

The Stark girl stilled and slumped to the ground, the gun skittering out of her hand and into the foam clouding the edges of the floor.

That man was just too late.   _What a tragedy._ Cersei could hear him pounding on the study door, over the overwhelming sound of her heartbeat.

Cersei felt transcendent, triumphant. That little Stark bitch was stilled, the only noise from the thumping on the door as that man tried to batter it down.

Cersei moved the scarf off of Arya’s head.  She had her. Knocked her out. It was too fucking easy, that little fool.  She had that little cunt. She pinned her, grabbing one of Robert’s fucking knives and holding the point of it under her stilled chin, quiet head.

“The littlest Stark. Fuck your father. Fuck your mother. They deserved it. And your aunt, too. You know you look a lot like her?  You’ll look just like her when you’re dead, too.  You’ll look just like her when I smear you across the floor, here. Fucking little Stark.  Did Jaime want you?  Do you think Jaime actually wanted you?  He would never, ever want a little piece of garbage, Stark garbage like you.”

Cersei cut the skin under her chin, watched the blood run down her throat and collect at the base of her throat.  The girl twitched. She was coming back...

“Lyanna was easy, She was easy, she was the easiest one. And then you Starks got cagey. Self important.”  Cersei moved the knife down and scratched tick marks into the shallow skin of Arya’s breast. “And I had to have you picked off one by one.”

“But you, little Stark, you’ll be dead by my own hand.”

Cersei gloated. She could feel that little cunt start to struggle weakly underneath her. _Good, she can hear me._

“Your sister should have been dead by now, too. Baelish is a fool, he should have jumped at the chance to have a night with her, where she didn’t need to say no or yes. He failed. I will not.”

That knife _was_ sharp. Everywhere she touched the little Stark girl, a line of red appeared. Cersei let the knife move across that Stark girl’s forehead, gently, watching as little lines of blood ran down her face, down to her fluttering eyelids.

This _is_ sweet. Her own hand. Cersei steadied herself and raised her arm up, waiting for those eyes to open.

_You’ll see me, you’ll see me as I kill you._

  
  
  
  


Petyr had lay next to Sansa for almost two hours.  How long did this last?  He had...authorized...the use of rohypnol, perhaps once or twice, but he had never partaken in anyone who had been...treated.

And now he had Sansa, drugged and slack and pathetic, impossibly beautiful beside him. Impossibly vulnerable. _How could he…?_

Beautiful Sansa. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He didn’t know what to do with her when she woke, but he could not touch her now...he couldn’t deliver her to Cersei...

He tucked the sheet more tightly around her, protectively.   _She looks like a beautiful, royal corpse, she looks like she’s already dead, still dressed, the white shroud all around her...please wake up Sansa...I’m so sorry._

He sat there and watched her eyes, waiting for them to flutter, to give him a sign.

Her hands started to move first, fingers twitching, and then the tendons in her throat as she swallowed; her head moved from side to side and finally her eyes slitted open. _A haze…what will she remember?_

He wanted this to be over, wanted it to never happen, _should have never done this..._ The shame of it bowed his shoulders.

He could not remember, ever, feeling shame before and it was heavy, made up of endless creamy skin and blue eyes, weighing on him.

Her voice, groggy and ragged, broke through his thoughts.

“Petyr. What...why am I.  What happened?” Her words were slurred, hazy.

“Sansa. I’m so sorry. You are alright. I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes, her eyes - he watched as a film of distrust came over them, as she was able to piece together some of the events of the night...shame…

“Petyr. _Why did you do that to me?_ ” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through him, cut straight to his soul, exposed him.

“Sansa. Cersei, she...I’m so sorry. I’ve always loved you. I stopped when I realized... I just..I don’t know. I’m arranging your ticket to go home, alone, as soon as possible, to be away from me. I just…”

He saw the reproach in her eyes, and he felt something very strange in his.  And he fumbled with his words, and running down his cheeks he felt it, he felt it...his guilt, his shame, it ran down his face.

 

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

  
  


 

 

Sansa felt her arms and legs, although they did not feel like they belonged to her, they felt like they were leaden, and he was sitting beside her, and he was crying, this new sober Petyr actually cried...she tried to grasp the thoughts that were buzzing through her head, put them together to try to understand what had happened…

_He had slipped her something.  Why?_

She moved her head and looked down at herself. She was tucked into the bed. Still dressed. She moved her leg and looked down at her foot. Still the cobalt blue leather shoes on.

_Why had he done this?_

“Petyr, I don’t understand...what did you do to me?”

She reached her hand down to feel herself...there was no wetness, she didn’t feel violated...she didn’t understand...he was muttering to himself, and all she could catch was ‘sorry’ over and over, and tears, actual tears were falling down his face and dripping from his goatee onto her...

She heard him say “Cersei” and stiffened.

Her voice came from a million miles away, and she tried to prepare her body for flight but it wouldn’t move, and still the words came out of her mouth.

“Did you do this for Cersei?”

Petyr opened his eyes and looked at her.

“I almost did, Sansa, and then I couldn’t. I didn’t touch you. I couldn’t.”

Sansa closed her eyes.

She was alive, she was whole.

She was too tired, too tired to deal with this, her limbs wouldn’t cooperate, Petyr was shuddering beside her. He wouldn’t hurt her, not now. Not like this. _She knew it._

She couldn’t keep her eyes open. She needed to rest.

_Let him cry..._

  
  
  


Jaqen was frantic. He had only been a few steps behind her and then that door slammed, the snake was waiting…that door was bolted, heavy wood - he could not break through it, the frame would not budge, he could hear that snake talking to his lovely girl right on the other side, he could not shoot through the handle because they were right there…

He broke, he was broken as he heard the sound of a fight on the other side of a door, but he was helpless, he could not break in, he was there...He heard the front door open, someone was coming, his gun was ready...but he needed to get through that door...Arya Arya Arya!!!

_This is agony, this is impossible!_

He slammed his shoulder again and again into the door, it would not move, and those stairs...he whirled around, the room was spinning, Arya Arya…

_He had lost his control, lost his mind and because of it he would lose his love his love._

Footsteps. He whirled.  Almost at the top of the stairs, the figure emerging and then with a loud cracking noise, the figure fell with a thump.

Meryn Trant had been coming up the stairs…he was shot...footsteps still behind him...

Gaani’s gun was out, Gaani had been right behind Trant - of course… _ahhh my brother..._

Useless Meryn Trant. Jaqen kicked his inconsequential form aside and spit on it.  

“Gaani, Kate - the door - you must help…”

Dying.  Lost. He had never felt  his heart drum so loudly, he could hear that snake taunting his lovely girl _...why was Arya so quiet…rise up, roar, my wolf..._

Jaqen roared in anger, every muscle, every sinew pulled as tightly as it could.  Gaani come up beside him, no words needed, and they started to rush at the door together.

  
  


 

 

Arya knew Cersei thought she was knocked out. _Let her think that._

_Quiet as a shadow._

The sharp hot feeling of the knife under her chin. _It’s just skin, it’s just a scratch._

_Her weight on top of me, her legs loosely pinched against my arms, you think I’m all the way out. Idiot._

_Cersei wants to tell me a little story before she tries to kill me._ Stupid Cersei Lannister. _You predictable, arrogant cunt._

Arya reached as slowly as she could, minute movements while Cersei raged on top of her. Her knife. Her knife. The gun had been knocked out of her hand...but the beautiful knife with the ornate handle.  She could almost reach it...and Cersei was so concentrated on her own _fucking_ story…

 _There_...she had it, pulled it out of its sleeve…

 

_Calm as still water._

 

Arya felt Cersei move a blade up to her forehead, dragging the point of the blade shallowly; she couldn’t help her forehead twitch in pain, pain on pain, the scratches of the surface with the thudding of her head….but Arya’s knife...almost ready…

Arya let her eyes slit open once she had her knife in hand.  Cersei’s face was over her, red and twisted in rage, the strong jaw cruel, somehow strangely beautiful, her nostrils flaring, teeth clenched - twisted, twisted...screwing up in agony when she mentioned Jaime’s name...her words hissing, a reptile.

She could hear Jaqen outside, heard a loud noise of a gunshot, a scrabbling and thumping against the door and Cersei’s attention flicked to it.

 

_NOW._

 

_Quick as a snake._

Arya twisted as hard as she could to knock Cersei off of her - oh Kate, that scrawny, wily Howitzer, had shown her how to leverage her disadvantage on her back and flip an opponent - Arya twisted and rolled over Cersei and saw the blond hair move through the air, the eyes widen in surprise, mouth form an O as the back of her head hit the ground.

And Arya’s knife moved towards her, one graceful arc, and plunged into the side of the long, golden-skinned neck as hard as she could, tearing through muscles and slicing through the artery, surprisingly difficult to take her wretched life, her muscles straining as she twisted the knife.

 

_Fierce as a wolverine._

 

A savage spray of blood stung Arya’s eyes. Crimson pooled around her on the floor, seeping into the edges of the blackened rug, the sharp pungent smell of it rising up from her body.

Cersei’s head slumped back, the angle impossible, blood soaking into the blonde hair, her limbs limp, twitches short circuiting through her

_She was dead, gone and Arya was alive..._

Arya started sobbing and slumped over Cersei’s body.

The thumping at the door intensified and with a crash, wood splinters flew through the air and suddenly Jaqen was all around her, all around her, he enveloped her, he picked her up and she was alive, alive and she had him, and she melted into him, unable to contain the noises that were coming out of her, grappling to hold him more tightly as he raised her up against him, crushing her, oh his arms, his hands moving down her spine and cupping her, grinding her against him, kissing her, his tongue intermingled with the taste of blood dripping across her face.

 

_Oh Jaqen...need you need you love you want you..._

 

Relief, a tidal wave of relief, crashing down on her, and as it crashed her tears intensified, relief and sadness and the shooting sparks of adrenaline, her muscles suddenly weakening, loose, oh oh…the roil of it settling at the base of her pelvis, snugly tucked up against him, her lover...

She could hear him, he was whispering, that voice, silken and sex in her ear, oh her love…

“It’s done, we’re done, it’s done, you are safe, my lovely, lovely girl. Beloved, my most beloved. Take you home, take you anywhere, take you with me.”  Jaqen was almost unintelligible, he had her pressed up against him, she melted into him, she would be one with him...

She buried her head in him and drew breath, trying to still herself.  Pulling away she saw Gaani and Kate behind him.  She smiled, weakly, and exhaled as the reality of what had happened started to piece itself together. _Cersei was gone, they were done, they were free of this..._

Jaqen was still reciting as in prayer, his love to her, his words escaping with each sob, rumbling up out of his chest, each syllable encased in honey as he held her.  “Take you anywhere, my lovely, most ravenous, most fierce, most delightful….”

Arya yearned for him. “Jaqen. My love. Mine. _Mine._ Everywhere, always yours. The world is ours. Take me home, though, take me to Winterfell, first.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Sunlight streamed through white crisp curtains - he could feel it -  and the sounds of the city outside had intensified; the L was rumbling by and the satisfying sound of traffic was below as the city got to work.

It had been a good dream. _Satisfying._ He was still too muzzy to understand what had happened.  As he woke he tried to piece it together. It was terrifying at first. He saw blood. In his dreams he heard a reptilian hiss, screams. But...somehow, it was a good dream.

He let the white light grow behind his lids, trying to conjure up the visions, put them in some order that made sense. Divine the faces out of the mist of his dreams - the terror had morphed into something that felt so right. When the imagery in his head came into focus, an indescribable feeling spread across his sleepy limbs like a comforting, downy embrace.

Bran opened his eyes and smiled.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, kids, that's the end. : )
> 
>  phew!
> 
> really interested in your feedback on the end - or if you've been quietly reading the whole story, please let me know your thoughts. good, bad, otherwise...maybe it will spark another fic.
> 
> I have a few smutty epilog chaps that I may or may not put up, depending on how I feel once I shake this bloody head-movie.
> 
> big thanks to my charming beta, my true blue commenters (really, really!) and my sweet and terrible A.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. thank you!


	30. Epilogue + Preview

**3 Months Later**

 

Sansa arrived first.

The maitre d’ showed her to their table, the one she liked the best - private and quiet but no so far away that their waiter would be inattentive.  He arrived as she was still shrugging out of her overcoat, smoothing the white fur collar flat and tucking her gloves into the pocket.

“Sansa, darling.”

His voice silked over her, and she looked up to see him walk up to the table smiling, really smiling.

She smiled as well.

 

 

 

They’d resumed their lunches. Sansa had insisted, at first coolly watching him struggle to try to explain himself, and she’d ease off and give him enough rope to hang himself with, continuing to apologize even after she would change the subject.

It was only after the second lunch was cleared from the table when it all _changed_.

His apology had stopped its stuttering, stopped being forced words in a tortured cadence... and suddenly leaked from his mouth like blood from a gash.  Naked emotions, rolling across the table and crashing into her.

That second lunch ended with her holding back tears - anger turning into empathy and rolling out of her eyes once she made it out onto the Chicago street.

Her acceptance, sudden, had cleared out the fog between them like a sharp sunbeam glancing through it.  

She’d only allow herself one every few weeks - one lunch, where she’d cross her legs too closely when she looked up to watch his eyes follow her mouth and then look up and see her, see right through her.

She didn’t remember what they’d talk about after that. Anything, everything. The air between them hot and heavy with intent, but none of it realized.  She’d go straight home afterwards, hope that the house was empty, let that intent slick all over her fingers in her room alone.

  


 

 

At her smile he pulled his coat off and set it on the seat.

He slid into the booth next across from her; his head was cocked and he reached for one hand and gave it a lingering grip before letting his hands rest just under the table.  “I trust you’ve been well, darling?”

Something different, dangerous about him, next to Willas.  Oh she’d never...but there was something dangerous about him, a wanting, and _that_ was an accelerant for her...she’d never...maybe…

She smiled again, feeling her eyelashes lower on their own accord.

“Petyr.  I’ve missed you.”

 

 

**3 Months Later**

 

Arya closed the door to her flat and hooked her messenger bag by the door, pulled out her laptop with a sigh.  Still another twenty pages to write...and still a lot of research before that could even start. Forel had been riding her.  She was exhausted...

“A girl returns.” God, he still moved so quietly in her flat. She had barely heard him yet he was only a few steps away from her.

“A man is perceptive.” She jumped back, smiling. _See him for five seconds and I instantly feel lighter._

She stepped on her tiptoes to reach for his head, and relished the greeting kiss: little thrills as her tongue dipped into his mouth, letting his warm lips make their request of hers, acquiescent. A promise. Later.

Sometimes she was still shocked to see him here, like a tamed and compliant creature in her apartment.  She hadn’t expected him to be so...domesticated. Her flat was cleaner than it had ever been.  She often came home to a pot of tea on the table.

He poured her a cup of tea and led her sit down.  He sat next to her, and she found herself draped around him; a warm hand moved up her spine and settled on the kinks in her neck, the hand moving, circling and pushing out the stiffness that had settled there so often as she felt the mounting pressure of finishing her degree. On time, thank you very much.

When he pulled his hand away her eyes were already half closed and she felt that big safe hand sweep her hair out of her face and pulled her to lay down completely on him.  

As she started to fall into a little catnap, she concentrated on the feeling of that hand, resting on her back, and the steady breathing, safe, his presence enveloping her.

She fell asleep with her lover smile spreading on her face.

 

 

  
  


**One year later**

Arya settled into the hammock, curled on top of Jaqen, and sighed contentedly.

They’d spent the morning in the sea, as they had every day for weeks, and she felt a twinge of gratitude for the very _civilized_ custom of siesta that would allow her to drowse away the hottest part of the afternoon.

A flash of scarlet, yellow passed by her peripheral vision. _There it was!_

She nudged the warm, almost hot, familiar body underneath her.

“Mmmm?” Jaqen’s voice was drowsy, faraway, rippling up right under her - apparently, he was ahead of her in the siesta game.

“A macaw! Look, it’s right there... _look look look!_ I found it...so, you know what that means…” Arya couldn’t help but gloat a little bit. His eyes, those giant eyes of his...he’d found almost everything on their list - the mottled owl, the yucatan woodpecker, the agami heron... she’d even missed the fucking _toucan_ , for christ’s sake. _Oh oh_ and he’d made _her_ pay each time he’d found something on their list...

_A man and a girl might as well play a few games now that they had some spare time._

“Oh, a girl has finally learned to see, is that it?” The drowsing was replaced by a little teasing. “How is it that only when a man is almost asleep that a girl finds what she is looking for? I think that a most devious girl cheats.” He punctuated his remark by taking the shoulder closest to his mouth and sucking on the flesh, drawing it in until she felt his teeth close on her, harder. “Does a girl only really look when a man can not help her see?”

“You know the deal. It’s time for you to pay up.” Arya pulled her shoulder from his mouth. “And right here. On the hammock.”

Jaqen untangled himself from her and sat up, putting his feet out to stop the swaying of the hammock.

He looked over at the support for the sling. Knotted tightly between two palms..but there would still be _give_ …

“On the hammock, mmm? A girl likes to live dangerously…” He joked with her but his hands were already inching under the waistband of her swimsuit, peeling it off under the curve of her ass and inching it slowly down her legs...he could not move any slower...the light pierced through the palm fronds as they blew in a bit of breeze coming up from the ocean, and she closed her eyes to the sight of it only to have the brightness flicker through her eyelids, only to feel his fingers spark where they touched her.

He moved off the hammock, letting her sway, and tugged the swimsuit bottom off of her feet in one motion. His fingers retraced their steps, moving back up her legs until they dug into the soft whiteness of her inner thighs, tracing light figure eights.

“Mmmm. But I _won._..so don’t cheat me...you know what I want.” Arya kept her eyes closed and her little lover-smile wrapped over her face and deepened as his fingers obeyed, one finger moving closer and closer circling over the bud of nerves, coaxing it to bloom, stiffen.

The hammock started to sway in a more rhythmic fashion.

Arya pushed her legs apart to better accommodate the heat of his hands and he chuckled as he moved one fingertip gently into her and then pulled it out just as delicately as it had entered.

“Jaqennnnnnnn….”

“How does a man know that a girl doesn’t cheat?” He mocked her, and she opened one eye to see him take his shorts down. His hair had grown back almost to his shoulders; weeks of being in the hot sun of the tropics had turned the edges of it golden white on the red. She watched the curls dip with his movements and sucked her breath in as the V of his pelvis came into view, slightly whiter than the golden skin of his abdomen, his cock already rising towards her, purpled. She would never, never tire of the sight of him.

The hammock creaked as he put his weight on it, and he kept both feet planted in the sand on either side and pulled her down to him.

“What is it that a girl wants again?” He teased her. He pulled both legs over his shoulders and took the head of his cock and slapped her clit with it.

“Mmmmph. Jaqen….”

“It seems that a girl wants something from a man. I wonder what it could be?” He ran his fingers across her stomach, lower, but instead of touching her sex he let his fingers run up the base of his cock, flitting across the vein and then traveling to her thighs.

“Is there something that you wanted from me, Arya Stark? Did you want me to give you something?” He gave her clit a quick pinch.

“Hey!! And you’re cheating.” Arya tried to look as put out as she could, considering her legs were hooked over his shoulders, considering the sharp, sweet cruelty of his fingers. “And I won…”

“Mmm. Never let it be said that a man doesn’t give what is” - and with this he pushed himself into her, already wet, and relished the sharp intake of breath he heard - “owed.”

She raised her hips to take him in further, giving a quick moan as he reached right there, _right there,_ and he pulled out torturously, slowly, everything concentrated on the feeling of him, deliciously too big for her but magically sliding in for her to grip him, and the hammock started to squeak just a bit, the palm trees swaying, her fingers tangling into the tassels, trying to find a way to stabilize herself until she just let the movements take her.

“If a man gives what is owed...then he’d better give it to me.” Arya breathed the words out and they blew away, blew with the white sands, blew into the Caribbean and into the protected jungles of Belize behind them.

He gave a ferocious push and again.

His voice came out as a growl as he held himself as deeply inside of her as possible.

“A man has said.”

 

 

**Chapter 1**

_5 years later._

 

Just a test. A test to see if her lover could still pull information from the most recalcitrant of snakes.

Varys hadn’t promised that _nothing_ would happen. He couldn’t really. He did try to make Arya feel better about the whole thing...but he wasn’t very convincing.  

Now Jaqen, Jaqen hadn’t made her feel too much better either, but Jaqen was much more _convincing._

Varys had planted the seed. He had a strange request...from the US government, _a relatively simple assignment...perhaps Jaqen would be interested?_

Jaqen had perked his ears at this.

“Just a few months. Maybe four months at the most. Arya Stark. Four months for a girl to start to miss a man.”

They had half-whispered the conversation to the ceiling when he first brought it up, Arya clutching Jaqen to her and hoping that the darkness of the room would absorb his words, not allow him to remember in the morning.  

“Four months. No more.”  By morning light the words were still there.  He hadn’t forgotten.

“I really, really have to think about this Jaqen.”  Arya stirred her coffee. Jaqen always had it ready.  His own coffee, brewed in his own home...he brewed Turkish style, insanely strong, the grinds as fine as sand. 

He had a ritual. Arya adored it. He would wake up early and start the coffee. He would set the cups out at the table, pull out a dish with sugar cubes and some little spoons, and set everything up to wait for the coffee.  

Usually he’d go back into the bedroom and wake Arya up - sometimes she’d wake with his tongue lapping her cunt… and sometimes she’d wake to him singing loudly in the shower, rubbing his wet head on her afterwards.

No matter what, though, there was always that Turkish coffee, and on good days Arya could sit with him at the kitchen table and sit with him, starting to become more chatty as the first cup went down.

Mornings that were much less satisfying saw Arya wake up when Jaqen got out of bed, blearily pulling on clothes and papers and her laptop and pouring Jaqen’s coffee into a battered travel mug and rushing out the door.  Deadline. Deadline. Deadline.

She’d had a lot of those mornings lately.   _But not today._

She had just turned in a major report and her publisher had threatened to take her phone away, if she didn’t get any sleep.

She was on a mandatory press blockade... from her own publisher. Ironic.

And for the first time in many weeks she was pleasantly squirming as she woke, Jaqen’s long hair tickling against her thighs until she couldn’t feel her thighs anymore, couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t his tongue on her cunt. And she had time to sit and sip her coffee with Jaqen, and sit with him in the living room, and watch the sun stream in through the windows, and not go anywhere or do anything she didn’t want to.  

She had promised to talk to him about the little mission, today, too.

She snuggled into the armchair, facing him on the couch.  The sunbeams lit up his hair - she loved the way the silver streaks seemed to glisten, thickening at his temples.

“I’m allllll  yours today. I want - I want a glorious romp with you. And I want to go down to the water and lay around in it.  And I want to sit and play some stupid card game, or scrabble or something with you.”

A sly smile spread across Jaqen’s face and he sat on the couch across from her. “All of these things, and more, I will give you, Arya Stark.”

“And more?” Arya grinned. “What else could you give me?”

Jaqen fished in his pocket.

“A lovely girl needs no adornment, this is true. But there are times when a man would like to celebrate her accomplishments, and perhaps he would like to give her something beautiful.”

He held out a small black box, opened it for her. It was beautiful - unexpected, she felt her mouth gape - but beautiful, perfect for her. Plain, simple. One tiny round opal on a delicate silver chain. As he put it on it fell like a raindrop right at her collarbone.

“And perhaps a girl forgets what happened two years ago, on this date?”

 _Shit. Shit. Arya_ had _forgotten._

It was their anniversary.

“Ummm. Jaqen. I have something for you, too.” She decided to wing it. Oh she’d give him something, alright. He deserved it. She quelled the feeling of fondness rising on her face, the appreciation - his little bauble, perfect in its tininess.

“But you’re going to have to sit back.”

 

 

It was always a pleasure when a girl took the lead.  There was a vulnerability, a _giving_ when he would take her, a gift he would never tire of.  But when a girl did the _taking._..that was something else entirely.

He stilled the smile he felt. It would not do to rile her up yet. Pretending meekness, he waited for her next command.  

It was a sweet, intense pleasure to watch her in action.  Her teeth would glitter, and she’d have a certain turn to her mouth that he’d have to push himself back from kissing.  Her movements became more aware, as if the air itself was caressing her each move.  She radiated triumph, her eyes became suddenly cruel, intensely sexual.  He could never get enough.

He watched her now move over him and roughly undo the buttons of his pants.

_Yes, lovely girl, go ahead. I am yours._

He felt his cock freed, and her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. The opal flashed blue and red on her collarbones, but she still hadn’t taken her shirt off. _Pity._ He moved his hand instinctively to grab a breast, it’s fullness moving right in front of his eyes underneath the tee shirt.

_Thwack._

A little frisson of pain: Arya’s slaps could be hard, depending on how set her jaw was...and right about now a girl’s teeth were pushed out.   _That would leave a mark._

He smiled impudently at her insouciance. “Is this the type of gift a girl really wants to give?”

Oooooh now he had done it. He felt the corner of his lip move; he couldn’t help it.   _He knew what she saw._ He let her take his shirt off and let his body settle into the couch cushions, watching her not be able to keep her eyes off of his cock as she undressed, waiting obediently for her next move. He lifted up one eyebrow - a dare.

So many little dares for her.  She took them all. A girl was driven, brave.

He was rewarded for crossing her.  She pushed him back, back against the couch and ungently spread his legs.  He lay in front of her, naked, his cock standing in between them, his hands waiting for her next command.

Or….not. She moved quickly - too quickly - over him.  A flurry of teeth and hair and lips and suddenly he looked down to see a hand palming his abdomen, white fingers raking down each muscle to settle around the base of him.

A thin glint, a spiderweb’s tendril of silver, encased the ring finger that was tightening, too much, around him.

He gasped.

“Noooo. This is mine, and I’ll tell you when you can make a sound.  Unless you want me to stop. And I don’t want to stop, so don’t try to make me angry right now, Mr. H’ghar.”

He couldn’t help himself. An angry girl, under the right circumstances, was a special sight. He grinned.

“How can a man tell you what he likes, so as to receive his best gift?”

_That would do it._

He smiled as she glared daggers at him before plunging down, the curtains of her hair over white marble shoulders and he felt her take him in, little shatterings of pain as her teeth skipped over the tender flesh.

He loved that he would completely fill her mouth, that her tongue would move to its own rhythm while her mouth had something else completely in mind, that moment when the tongue and the mouth conspired to suck him down so completely. He was as deep as he could be in her; insane, the sensation of her throat so tightly around him, _ahhhh ahhh lovely girl._..he could feel her mouth water and looked down, waiting to see her eyes sparkle with the effort, the tears brought by the herculean task of sucking him in so so deeply…

And cruel, cruel Arya, pulling her mouth off of him; he moved to keep himself in her but was met with a sharp slap, oh the contrast of it against that hot wet mouth he had just revelled in.

 _Now what does a girl want._  He felt himself twitch from the lack of her, every whisper of air that touched his shaft, wet from her mouth reinforcing the lack, the lack of her mouth.

Oh. Ohh.

Those little fingers moved into his mouth and he sucked as they passed his lips. And as quickly as they were given, they were withdrawn, and he followed her white fingers as they twirled around one of those nipples, pink and sugarsweet and stiff.  

_A man wants…_

He watched her fingers curve down and below his line of vision, and before he realized what was happening felt her engulf him, saw her take him into her, the contrast of her skin against the darkened, purpling of himself, slowly sliding into her...agony, the heat and the grip of it almost too much, too much to stop his hands, and he slid them up against the milkskin of her hips and moved her, closer and away, and watched as the cruelty left her face as she was consumed by him.

She pounded against him, slowed and sped and clung and he let her, let her take him wave by wave, until he couldn’t allow her to just ride him anymore, it was too too much and he looked up to see her tongue flick out against her lips as she breathed in and she was all over him and he couldn’t stop himself, the surge coming out of his cock, his mouth, stiffening his fingers and his core, and she whimpered as she felt him move inside of her, felt his seed come out and into her.

He was too sensitive and when he felt her move he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down to him to stop it.  Her breath was coming quickly, he felt the fluttering of her heart as she pressed her chest against his.

He reached for her mouth to kiss it, to thank her.

“My Arya Stark. My beautiful wife. You truly _are_ a man’s best gift.”

 

_A man could talk about the mission, later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a sweet epilogue for you.
> 
> and a preview of the next story in this little world.

**Author's Note:**

> et voila. 
> 
>    
> all writers like feedback; me too. please let me know what you think. 
> 
> and thank you, btw, for reading. 
> 
> thanks thanks again to ladygrey81 for her intrepid beta-ing. seriously. so many little catches and on my impatient, get-it-out timeline, too.


End file.
